


Dominion

by ShipMaester



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Post-Ramsay, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-09 14:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4353023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipMaester/pseuds/ShipMaester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is part of the darker side of my Season 5 recovery.  It follows the HBO variation that Sansa was forced to marry and endure Ramsay.  When a victorious, newly widowed King Stannis is told by the bannermen of the North that the condition of their fealty is that Sansa, now rid of Ramsay, becomes his queen, will he realize how difficult it will be for her to do her duty after what she has been through?  </p>
<p>This is the first thing I started writing after Season 5, episode 6 started the heartbreak that I knew was only going to get worse.  I wasn't going to post because I thought no Stansa fan would want to read a fic where what happened in that episode did happen.  Still, I wanted to play with the idea of how Stannis might be able to eventually make Sansa comfortable with being his queen.  My apologies to those who read and believe it doesn't make the grade in doing that.  Many thanks to spittingFeathers and LAntoniou for saying they'd read it if I posted it!    </p>
<p>These are GRRM's toys . . . just borrowing and not profiting!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spittingfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spittingfeathers/gifts), [LAntoniou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LAntoniou/gifts).



Sansa

The Boltons had not planned on the number in the ranks at Winterfell who were still loyal to the Starks or those who heard Sansa’s screams at night and worried whether their sister or daughter would be the one Ramsay raped next.  Not even she knew of the ones that planned to kill from within and side with King Stannis until it started happening.  Without Robb or any of her brothers still alive, save Jon, if she had to choose a king, it would be the king her father died supporting.  It seemed others thought so as well. 

As fighting wore on, Ramsay watched from the battlements, having taken off his helmet so he could scream down a combination of curses and instructions.  He didn’t pay attention to her behind him; no one was paying attention to her.  She was supposed to have gone through the catacombs and then to the cave near the hot springs with Walda.  Sansa picked up the sword of one of the fallen.  It was heavy, but she could hold it with two hands.  Her first thought was to run with it pointed straight ahead, but his breastplate might stop the blade.  She considered trying to hold it high enough to ram it into the exposed part of his neck, but if she missed, he would surely kill her in one quick motion.  No, she needed to take it in both hands and wield the sword with all her might to go for the side of his exposed neck.  There was only a slightly better chance that this would work than ramming the sword through his neck from the back.  She had seen one beheading and it had ripped her heart in two.  This one would either restore her or get her killed.  Either way, it was better than spending one more night as Ramsay’s victim. 

Hesitating only long enough to ensure no one was watching who might stop her, Sansa ran toward him from behind and swinging around as she did so, she hit his Ramsay’s neck cleanly, only not with enough force to behead him totally.  She must have hit his artery for blood spurted out forcefully all over her gown.  His eyes were wide with shock as his thin lips tried to suck in air.  Sansa smiled down on him until those eyes were totally lifeless, wiping her sleeve across her mouth to rid it of his blood and then wiping her hands on her soiled gown.  They may call her a kin slayer.  King Stannis may decide a life for a life; she had heard he believed in justice above all else.  They may say it was unfair for her to sneak up on him.  It was no matter.  She had not known anything to be fair in quite a long time and she was free of him.

In all the continued frenzy of the battle, no one paid her any attention as she returned to her room and changed clothes before making her way to the catacombs.  Sansa carried the sword with her, having wiped Ramsay’s blood off of it.  It could in handy for keeping her and Walda safe.  She wished no harm to Walda and her child, despite her being the wife of a man she hated and her being present at the murder of her mother, brother, and loyal Northmen.  Walda had grown up a victim of ruthless men.

“Where have you been?” Walda asked in her thin, squeaky voice as she sat with her back against the wall of the cave. 

Sansa looked at her defiantly.  “I killed Ramsay and then I came here.” 

Walda’s watery eyes grew wide and she took in a deep breath and let it out with a huff.  “Oh I am so pleased!  He would have tried to kill my child and I do not know if Roose would have stopped him.” 

Although surprised that the rather dull-witted Walda had made that much of a realization of what the fate of her child would have been, Sansa was certain she knew Roose would not have tried to stop Ramsay.  Even if he had, Ramsay would have been successful after Roose was dead.

“Did you see Roose before you came here?  Is he still alive?”

“I did not,” Sansa replied, sitting opposite her.  She did not look for Roose Bolton.  In fact, she had done her best to avoid him.  “I believe you must be prepared for King Stannis to win the day, My Lady.” 

Walda looked sad and her hands went to her generous stomach.  “I hope he will let the child live.  Do you believe he will let you be mistress here or will he set his Queen up and take Winterfell for one of his allies?”

“We will do what we must to survive,” Sansa replied, knowing the full meaning of those words all too well.  “I will curtsy and swear allegiance, as will you.  I know King Robert felt compelled to take the children of his enemies, but I have not heard the same of King Stannis.  You must be prepared to beg.”

Despite the defections, the battle to take Winterfell from the Boltons raged for five more days.  What little food they had managed to take to the cave with them, Sansa mostly rationed out for Walda to ensure the survival of the baby.  They melted snow for water to drink and, ultimately, that was what sustained them. 

It was a party of five led by a man who introduced himself as Lord Seaworth, the Hand of the King, who found them.  “I am Lady Sansa, daughter of the late Lord Stark,” she announced, holding her head high.  Sansa refused to acknowledge her name as Bolton. 

“My Lady,” the Hand started with a bow.  He appeared haggard and a bit scraggly for obvious reasons, but at least his manner did not suggest they were in immediate harm.  The Hand looked around her to Walda.  “And you are Lady Bolton?”

Walda’s fear was palpable.  “I am, My Lord.” 

“King Stannis is now in possession of Winterfell and will want to see you both in due course.” 

Sansa saw him look at Walda’s stomach and try to discern whether her girth was all her or part her and part babe.  “Lady Bolton is with child and will need rest.”

The Lord Hand assessed the situation.  “Ser Rolland, take Lady Bolton to the kitchen.  I will meet you there with Lady Sansa shortly.”  He whispered further instruction to the knight who ushered a still frightened Walda out of the cave with two more of the party. 

“I asked that she be taken the back way so that she will not see her husband’s head on a spike,” the Lord Hand explained.  “Bolton was captured and executed this morning. “  He motioned for her to walk with him and one of his soldiers trailed behind.  “My Lady, do you know how Ramsay Snow was killed?”

“Yes,” she answered, hoping she showed no fear.  “I killed him.”

The Lord Hand did not seem surprised, nor did he seem shocked.  “The King will wish to question you on this matter, My Lady.”  If anything, Lord Seaworth looked apologetic.  “For myself, I am sorry we did not arrive sooner.” 

“As am I, Lord Hand.”

They walked in silence until they got close to the heads on the spike.  Sansa stopped and took a good, long look at Roose Bolton, whose eyes were closed.  Then she saw that someone had completed the job of taking Ramsay’s head off; his eyes had the same wide-eyed stare as when she last saw the life leave them. 

“Did King Stannis perform the execution?”

“He did, My Lady.  His Grace had Ramsay’s body brought to the block, pronounced him a traitor and cited his crimes against your family, the North, and Westeros, and then finished the task.  He did this as Bolton watched.  Next, he executed Bolton, citing his crimes as well.”

Sansa continued to stare at the severed heads.  “There was one crime missing in the list for Ramsay,” she stated flatly.

“I think not,” the Lord Hand replied, lowering his voice.  “The King was circumspect in how he made the pronouncement, but his crimes against you were cited all the same.”

She still did not move or take her eyes from the spikes high above.  “I look forward to thanking His Grace.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne

Stannis Baratheon was the most confounding of men.  She hated him, yet she could not help but have respect him as a commander.  Brienne was ambushed, having been discovered by spies he sent out in advance of his siege of Winterfell.  The spies, she learned had been trained by the former smuggler, Lord Seaworth, and she hated to admit that she had not heard them until they were upon her.   For days, she and her squire, Podrick Payne, were tied to a tree in front of a tent where she learned Lady Baratheon lay ill.  The manner and extent of her illness, she knew not.  Although heavily guarded, they weren’t speaking at all.  The daughter brought them both melted snow to drink and shared what little food there was.  It broke Brienne’s heart to see the greyscale-scarred child.  She knew all too well that this was a cruel world for any female who was not beautiful or who had any manner of imperfection to mar what noblemen felt was their due.  Even if she did not kill the child’s father and he happened to take the Iron Throne, this daughter and heir would be lucky to receive the attention of a second or third son. 

When the siege was over, both she and Pod were brought to Winterfell and made to witness the beheading of the corpse of Ramsay the Bastard and then of Roose Bolton.  There was acrid smoke in the air from the dead of both sides being burned on pyres.  Brienne wished she would have prepared Pod for what she anticipated was to befall them.  She would not ask Stannis Baratheon for her own life; she would ask that the life of her squire be spared. 

She did not see Lady Sansa among those captured or looking on the execution.  Brienne hoped she had managed to escape well in advance of the siege.   After Bolton was executed, there were several others, although they were not conducted by Stannis.  Watching him, it was difficult to believe he and Lord Renly were ever brothers.  They both had dark hair, although Renly had had far more than his older brother.  Where Renly had been smiles, attractive features, colorfully arrayed, and charming, Stannis was scowls, hard edges, black attired, and dour. 

The executions seemed to end without her and Pod being among them.   She expected to be taken to the cells below ground only to find that, while still in manacles and chains and under guard, they were taken to what she assumed was the dining hall and told to sit.  With the exception of her four guards, Stannis’ soldiers moved to and fro, sometimes passing by with a body to be carried to the pyre.  They were there, with their guards, for what she thought to be three hours or more before they were approached by a man in a scruffy gray beard.  “You are Brienne of Tarth?” he asked.

“I am.”

“I am King Stannis’ Hand, Davos Seaworth.  I understand you came to Winterfell to fulfill an obligation to Lady Stark to see that her daughters returned to Winterfell.  Lady Sansa is currently being cared for and is safe.  You will see her by and by.  Before that, there is your other oath that we must discuss.  I would ask you to come with me.  Your squire will remain here.” 

With two guards behind her and her hands still in manacles, but the chains around her ankles removed, Brienne walked beside Lord Seaworth as he led them back out into the yard.  Once again, her nostrils were assaulted with the smell of burning flesh.  “It is a horrific odor, is it not?” Lord Seaworth remarked. 

“I find that a strange comment from and adherent of R’hllor,” Brienne returned flatly. 

This seemed to amuse him.  “If I were a follower, yes, it would be strange indeed.  I have only enjoyed that smell once, and that was when it meant the demise of the Red Priestess, Melisandre.” 

This was quite a revelation.  “Did your liege finally tire of her?”

“She went one step too far.  Melisandre lost the majority of her most devoted followers, for it was her I am quite sure they worshiped and not her god.”

“Why are you telling me this?”  Brienne asked bluntly.  This had to have a purpose, although she was not sure what it was.

“Lord Renly has been avenged for I know, as I saw it with my own eyes, that the Red Priestess was the creator of the shadowy thing that murdered the King’s brother.”

Brienne had to credit Lord Seaworth for an attempt at diplomacy, and she did not entirely doubt his story.  “You mean the shadowy thing that looked like Stannis Baratheon.  The fact that you admit you were present tells me your king had a hand in my liege’s murder.” 

“Before I answer that, and I will tell you what I know, I would ask you a question.  By what right did Renly call himself king?  How could he claim himself King Robert’s heir over the older brother?” 

She wanted to tell him that was two questions, but only as a means of deflecting.  The only claim Lord Renly had was that he was more popular and Stannis was feared.  She knew it was not a good claim. 

Lord Seaworth continued as they walked to what she assumed as no particular location, even though she watched for signs of a means of escape or of her impending doom.  “King Stannis almost died in the service of his brother, King Robert, at the Siege of Storm’s End.  His reward was to lose his home to his younger brother and be forced to take residence in the most forsaken place in all of Westeros.  This was not your lord’s doing, but he enjoyed holding it over my lord.  When their oldest brother dies and the deception King Stannis suspects is proven by Lord Stark, the one person whose support he should have had was against him and, once more, Renly meant to claim something that should have been King Stannis’ by right of birth.  So yes, your lord was warned that if he did not bend the knee, he would be destroyed.  King Stannis offered to make him his heir, which is more consideration than he ever received from either brother.  Whether King Stannis knew the full extent of what the priestess was capable of, I do not know.  We have never spoken of it, nor will we.  Nonetheless, I can assure you that Renly’s murderer is no more.  If you bend the knee and swear your allegiance to this king, no one will dare mock you as they did in Renly’s court.”

Her first impulse was to tell him he could prepare the spike for her head and walk her to the execution block for she would never serve Stannis Baratheon.  Instead, she asked, “What fate does your king plan for Lady Sansa?”

The question seemed to please Lord Seaworth for a small smile played upon his lips, barely perceptible for his thick beard.  “She is not his prisoner at the moment, and if she bends the knee and does not claim the title of Queen of the North, Winterfell will be returned to her as the only Stark known to still be alive when we are able to ride south.  If you so desire, as long as you swear fealty to King Stannis, you may be in the service of Lady Sansa and you will never be asked to serve him directly.”

Brienne thought on this.  She had loved Renly well, and he had been kind to her.  She had even said that she would give her life for him and die happily.  But giving her life now does not bring her lord back.  Lady Stark, on the other hand, had shown her respect and trust.  Lady Sansa may be safe at Winterfell at the moment, but that was only the word of a man who served a kinslayer.  Brienne also had not returned Arya or knowledge of her to Winterfell.   “Will my squire be given the same choice?”

“He will, regardless of your decision.  King Stannis lets every man and woman speak for themselves.” 

She could not deny that she understood the depths you could be driven to from the disappointment when those whose loyalty and affection you should have the right to expect is denied.  Regardless, this concession from someone who believed fealty was his right did not ring true.  “I would ask why your king, a king who is known to be unyielding, would attempt to deal with me when there is no gain for him in doing so?”

This brought exasperation from Lord Seaworth.  “My Lady, you are quite correct that this is something he need not consider.  You could be done away with in the next quarter of an hour and everyone would go about their business.   A king does not accede to the throne without regrets and you may be the beneficiary of actions on his part based on one of those regrets.  If you are one without any regrets in your life, then I commend you.  For my part, I see you as a threat to my king and, as such, you are welcome to follow me to the block.” 

There was no way that Brienne could see her way to fulfilling both her oath to avenge Renly and her oath to Lady Stark regarding her daughters unless she were satisfied to accept the burning at the stake of the Red Priestess as revenge for Renly.  It was not as it should be.  It was as it had to be.  “If Lady Sansa will take me in her service, and if I have your promise that your king will not call me to his service, then I will recognize him as king and bend the knee.”  


	3. Chapter 3

Stannis

Stannis had been occupied with giving instructions on urgently needed reports on troop counts, supplies, food stores, and armaments when his Hand brought Lady Sansa into the newly rebuilt Great Hall with its floor still smeared with the blood of those who died there.  While she ate and bathed, Davos reported that she wished to see him before she was rested and that he believed she would bend the knee.  Beholding such beauty, Stannis was relieved he would not be required to be an author to any more strife for the daughter of Ned Stark.  Of course, that wasn’t entirely true.  She was stuck with them for possibly more than a year.  Food would have to be rationed and her home invaded by more strangers. 

Approaching him, Lady Sansa was dressed more for warmth than fashion, although he could not name the material.  She wore a gray Stark cape around her shoulders and her copper hair down as most women of the North.  Lady Sansa curtsied low and stayed there while looking him directly in the eye.  “Your Grace, I am Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark.  I am the oldest survivor of their children and have only recently been told that my two younger brothers may yet be alive, although their whereabouts and exact fate are unknown to me.  I was removed from King’s Landing by Lord Baelish who hid me at the Vale and then left me here at the mercy of the Boltons.  In order to survive, I was forced to marry the Bolton Bastard.  I ended that marriage with a sword the first day of the battle and I thank you, Your Grace, for finishing what I could not.”

She stopped for a second, and then began again, “Your Grace, my lord father was murdered because of his support of your rightful claim to the Iron Throne.  On behalf of Winterfell and those here loyal to House Stark, I claim myself your loyal subject in honor of my lord father’s memory.  I cannot say at this time that the bannermen of the North will follow suit; however, you have my word, the word of the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, that I will encourage them to do so.”

“Rise, My Lady.”  He attempted to make his voice a little less commanding than usual.  “It is my honor to return Winterfell back to the daughter of House Stark.  We must impose on you for an undetermined amount of time; however, I will ensure that we continually bolster provisions and work to finish the restoration of Winterfell.“  Stannis decided not to mention the treason of her brother and mother, or that he had once considered her father his enemy.  Time had taught him that Ned was not to blame for any of Robert’s laxity or misdeeds.   Ned’s error was in being unable to execute Joffrey and Cercei while he had a chance.  His daughter was the one to pay for that error.

Stannis tried not to take offense at the doubtful look he saw in eyes reminiscent of her mother’s, yet not entirely so.  It was as if steel now had the color of light blue.  Given what he knew of her life the past few years, it was understandable.  Nodding to Davos, his Hand had Brienne of Tarth brought forward into the Great Hall.  “I believe you have met Lady Brienne?”

“Yes,” Lady Sansa replied, eyeing the larger woman curiously, presumably due to the manacles she still wore.  “Good day, My Lady.”

Lady Brienne bowed to her rather than curtsy.  “Brienne of Tarth has had two missions.  One is to see to your safe return, and that of your sister, as directed by your lady mother when she was in her service.  Her second was to avenge my lord brother.  She has agreed to bend the knee if she can be of service to you as your sworn shield.  Her allegiance is not to me, nor has it ever been with a Bolton.  Will you accept her as one formerly sworn to your late lady mother?”

“What good is a sworn shield that you were able to subdue and bring her to me in chains?”  The clarity and coldness of her voice was not missed.  Jon had described a little girl who smiled and sang; that little girl was obviously no more.    

“I have been told she was not easily subdued.  It is also possible she allowed herself to be captured as a means of breaching Winterfell and believing she could escape.  The decision is yours.  If you accept her service and she swears her fealty as you have done, then she is in your service.  If you do not wish her as your sworn shield, she will stay in manacles until other options for her will be considered.”  He did not bother to tell her what those options might be.  His conscious would not allow him to execute the woman who had to flee after being accused of a crime that he was responsible for, even if he wanted Brienne of Tarth to believe that is exactly what he would do.  At worst, he would send her out in the cold with provisions on a quest to seek the remaining Starks. 

Lady Sansa looked again at Brienne of Tarth and back at him.  “I accept, Your Grace.” 

Given her initial reaction, Stannis found her taking the warrior woman as her sworn shield odd.  It served his purposes and there were many other things that needed his attention.  He addressed the woman who stood a good four inches taller than he.  “And you, Lady Brienne; are you satisfied?  Will you swear your allegiance?”

The warrior woman moved toward him and away from Davos.  His guards began to surround her, and he held up a hand to restrain them.  Brienne of Tarth stopped a few yards before him and went down on one knee.  “I, Brienne of Tarth, formerly in the service of Lord Renly Baratheon and Lady Catelyn Stark, swear my fealty to you, King Stannis, as the king of Westeros.  I further give my life in service to Lady Sansa until such time as she wishes me to continue the quest given my her mother to find her lady sister.”

“Rise,” he commanded, stopping himself from referring to her again as Lady Brienne.   He turned his attention to Ser Justin Massey.  “Take the manacles off, Ser Justin.” 

The Smiler looked at him as if he had lost his mind, but he did as he was told when Stannis graced this defiance with a fierce scowl.  “My Lord Hand will see that your sword is returned to you,” he addressed Brienne of Tarth while still scowling at Ser Justin.    

Stannis then turned his attention back to Lady Sansa.  “My Lady, I would ask you to be present at the Small Council meetings every morning as discussion there will include provisioning and garrisoning at Winterfell.  I would have you heard in these matters.  We will go over matters pertaining to Winterfell first.  You will be welcome to stay for the entire session; however, I do not require it of you.”

He allowed her to absorb all he instructed, expecting Lady Sansa to agree, curtsy, and ask to take her leave.  “I have heard that Queen Selyse is ill. There is no maester at Winterfell in whom I would advise putting your trust.  Have you one in your retinue?” 

Stannis was taken aback by her interest.  “Maester Pylos is not a medical man.  He attends her nonetheless.”

“May I attempt to be of assistance?  If not with the Queen, perhaps with caring for the Princess while you see to the matter required of you?”

He looked into her eyes to try to gauge her sincerity and possible ulterior motives.  What Stannis saw was no expression at all.   Of all in the room, he would be the last who could criticize schooling your expressions or hiding emotions.  Stannis wasn’t particularly pleased to see someone who was able to accomplish it as well or better than he.  “Your king would be grateful for any assistance you may be able to render, Lady Sansa.   You may retire to rest now.” 

Lady Sansa executed another flawless curtsy and backed away from him before turning and leaving the Great Hall in the direction of the bedchambers.  Stannis watched her go with the Tarth woman following her.  Ned’s daughter had the bearing of a queen . . . a great queen that Selyse, Cercei, and the Tyrell girl could never be. 

Hours later after reviewing the incoming reports of stores and assessments of their current situation, Stannis made his way to the bedchamber Selyse had been taken to earlier that morning.   Standing in the doorway, he watched as Lady Sansa packed small amounts of ice in a wet linen and gently dabbed it against the worst of the burns on Selyse’s face.  Selyse was unconscious.  Not even something she abhorred, such cold being administered to her person, was able to rouse her.  Mercifully asleep, Shireen was slumped forward in a chair pulled up to the bed, her head laying on arms folded on an unoccupied part of the bed. 

Purposefully, he cleared his throat to ensure she knew someone was behind her.  “How long has the Princess been by this bed?”

Lady Sansa continued her ministrations to his wife.  “She was here when I arrived after I left you in the Great Hall, Your Grace.”

Stannis stepped further into the room.  “Will that make the Queen more comfortable?” 

“I hope it will.  If not, it makes Princess Shireen believe her mother is being helped and that is what is truly important.”

Until that moment, Stannis wasn’t sure if Lady Sansa realized that the queen was not likely to survive.  He was not certain he had fully realized it until that moment.  There had been too much to do.   At the time he had Melisandre tied to the stake after she had tried to do the same to Shireen, Stannis had not factored in Selyse’s devotion to her fire god or his priestess.  He hated that he did not care beyond what this might mean for Shireen.  Selyse was complicit in the attempt to sacrifice their daughter, not to mention the only future for the Baratheon bloodline of his lord father and lady mother, in her quest to ensure she was able to continue to call herself a queen.  Stannis had no idea what was the correct thing to do where Shireen was concerned.  There were so many other matters that needed his attention that he was more equipped to handle.

“I will see to them, Your Grace.”    

Stannis stepped back into the darkened hallway and looked around, seeing only his own guard.  “Where is your sworn shield?” 

“Obeying my instructions to ensure no one attempts to harm Lady Bolton without you or I being made aware of it.”

Davos had mentioned Lady Sansa’s apparent concern for her former captor’s wife.  Lady Bolton was of little to no consequence to him at the moment, save a fresh concern that Lady Sansa might be planning some elaborate revenge against the Boltons and this woman and her unborn child may be the only one left to enact it on.  A fleeting thought crossed his mind that he needed to save her from that mistake with what little time he had to devote any attention to such an endeavor.  “If you have plans for Lady Bolton or her child, I would insist you reconsider, My Lady.” 

It became disconcerting how she talked to him without looking at him or, as most did, at his chest or feet.  Lady Sansa merely continued to take snow from the bowl and pack it into the cloth and dab Selyse’s burnt flesh.  “Walda Bolton is but another victim of powerful men.“ 

Waiting to her if she would say more, Lady Sansa did not continue and it really wasn’t necessary.  There was no other thought for her to have.  She would assume he was cut from the same cloth as those who had used her for their gain.  Stannis wished he could tell her otherwise; it would be a lie.  He had done many things he was not proud of in his quest to be acknowledged as the King of the Seven Kingdoms.  That it was his right and duty would be of no consequence to her.  Stannis wasn’t sure what it meant to him any longer. 

With nothing else to say, Stannis walked to the other side of the bed and moved to pick Shireen up to take her to where she could lay out on a bed and sleep.  “No!” Lady Sansa hissed under her breath, and then calmed herself, finally looking up at him.  “Please, Your Grace.  Allow her to have the memory that she stayed by her mother’s side for as long she could.”  

“You must not yet know what her mother did that brings her to this fate.”  Stannis did not want to have to tell the story, especially since it showed how weak he was in not having rid them of Melisandre long ago.  He hoped she would realize his not offering the story meant he had no desire to tell it. 

“I have heard,” the young lady replied.  “Allow the Princess to show compassion where her mother did not.” 

With that, Stannis nodded his acquiescence to her request.  He gently bent forward and used his forefinger to move a lock of Shireen’s hair away from her face and felt Lady Sansa’s eyes on him.  Even though just seconds before he found her avoidance of him irksome, he found her watching him now made him self-conscious.  “Good night, My Lady,” he said quickly and left to find a bed for a few hours of sleep.   


	4. Chapter 4

Davos

The last body to be burned at Winterfell was that of Queen Selyse, who succumbed two days after the end of the siege.  Davos hated to admit how pleased he was to see her body go up in flames.  Not that he had much feeling for the late queen to begin with, but what little he might have been able to muster went up in the smoke of the fires that consumed Melisandre.  There was little doubt Selyse had been complicit in Melisandre’s attempt to sacrifice Princess Shireen in spite of Stannis insisting there would be no more burnings.  Davos had made no move to save his queen when she threw herself on the pyre Stannis had Melisandre tied to and lit.  It was Shireen’s screams that caused Stannis to order two of his men try to pull her out of the fire.  For Davos, the effort was not worth the burns the two soldiers suffered to their arms and hands. 

It would be wishful thinking to assume the deaths of Melisandre and Selyse signaled the last of R’hllor and his fanatical adherents within Stannis’ ranks.  Only now they knew their king valued his princess far more than his queen or his mistress.  Davos was growing concerned that his king had traded one red haired woman for another . . . most assuredly as an advisor, and quite probably as an object of fascination.  He was not entirely certain it was not a good thing.  Lady Sansa was vastly different than Melisandre.  Davos was certainly grateful to the lady for how she stood by the Princess, comforting her after the death of her mother in a way the King could not. 

In daily Small Council meetings, Lady Sansa listened and watched.  When she spoke on matters concerning Winterfell, it primarily had to do with matters of provisioning.  The only matter she had been insistent about concerned Lady Bolton and her unborn child.  She quietly listened to suggestions that ranged from having them change their names to forcing her to drink moon tea all the way to executing Walda while she still carried the babe.  King Stannis turned to Lady Sansa and asked if she wished to offer an opinion. 

“Thank you, Your Grace, I would.”  The best way Davos could think to describe the way Lady Sansa spoke was to say that she spoke softly, yet with a great deal of resolve.   “There cannot be a Bolton at Winterfell or one allowed to reinstate House Bolton, either at Dreadfort or elsewhere.  This can still be accomplished without shedding the blood of a guileless lady and an innocent child.”

“The child will have Bolton blood.  He or she will be a bad seed!  If you are about to suggest fostering out a son, your own house’s experience with Theon Greyjoy should caution you,” Ser Axell Florent interjected forcefully, as the author of the scheme to execute Walda, killing both her and her child. 

The disapproving glare Lady Sansa gave the older knight was eerily similar to one he had seen on her mother years before when she tried to scold Stannis and Renly about their behavior as brothers.  “King Stannis’ efforts at The Wall and of freeing Winterfell have already gained him a reputation of doing what is in the best interest of the people.  Killing a woman and child who poses no immediate threat to him would make him appear more like a Bolton than a king who believes in justice.  No decision has to be made at present.  Lady Walda may well marry again.  Given the current large number of men present at Winterfell and the much smaller number of women, I daresay Lady Walda will do well.  I agree she must take the name of Rivers until that time, and her child should have that name as well.  As Warden of the North, I humbly request that the child not be given a northern name, not even the name of Snow.”

 “You would have this future husband raise a child that is not his?”  Ser Axell’s question was more of a mocking jeer, causing him to get a glare from Stannis.  He lowered his tone, but did not back down.  “No man would do that.”

“It is done all the time,” Artos Flint of House Flint of the Mountains returned.  He had been the first to suggest that Walda be allowed to change her name and give this name to her child when born.  “Men foster sons, take on wards, take in their kin.”

“House Flint of the Mountains has always been loyal, and none more than you,” Lady Sansa declared.  She looked toward her king and Davos saw genuine sadness.  “The son would have to be sent to The Wall at a young age to be fostered there and sworn to the Brothers of the Night’s Watch.  A daughter would become a silent sister.” 

In the end, Stannis agreed that there were other things that were far more important and no immediate decision was required, as long as Lady Walda showed no signs of sedition.  His only other stipulation was that any former member or sympathizer of House Bolton, despite swearing allegiance to the King, was not allowed to spend time with her.  Artos Flint offered to keep an eye on Walda and set up others within his house to do so when he could not. 

It was another fortnight before Davos was walking the halls of Winterfell and heard the unmistakable sounds of two having quite the time of bedding each other, and before he could get himself out of earshot, he heard the tinny voice of Walda crying out, “Artos!”  The next day, he asked Lady Sansa when she became aware of the possibility of a liaison between the two. 

“The minute Artos was truly able to see her for the first time after all was settled after the siege.  His late wife was of a similar size.”

“Would you have made the suggestion that day had you not observed his interest in her?” Davos could not resist asking.  Marya would have enjoyed this sort of plotting and manipulation.

Lady Sansa wore the same saddened expression she did at the Small Council that day.  “I would have still felt compelled to recommend the fates of the children as I did.  It pains me to think of them having no choice in life based on who their father was, despite knowing it happens to so many in one way or another.  As for Lady Walda, I had no other suggestion except that she live out her days at Winterfell.  She may yet.” 

Over the course of the next two moon cycles, Davos observed that Lady Sansa showed Stannis the respect due her king, albeit with a reserve he interpreted as her always being on the lookout for evidence that he meant her or Winterfell harm.  The Princess adored her and tried to emulate her posture, walk, and other mannerisms.   Lady Sansa was kind and conscientious in her duties to those at Winterfell.   What she was not was happy.  Those who knew her when she was a girl remarked on the change often, cursing all those who had brought such sorrow on her.  They lamented the loss of a bright smile that lit her eyes and a musical laugh that could easily turn into a fit of giggles. 

On the other hand, time did not change Brienne of Tarth from looking at Stannis as if she would thoroughly enjoy putting a dagger into his heart.  The woman had to know she was being watched constantly.  Davos had done as his king asked when he approached her that day to seek terms that would allow her to swear fealty.  He had gone above and beyond in explaining the actions of the King to get the result Stannis wanted.  Davos was not yet sure it was the right thing to do. 

Everyone had their jobs to do at Winterfell.  Some hunted for food, others fished the streams.  Some tanned hides, others wove cloth.  Some mixed mortar, others laid stones.  The list of tasks was long, but well organized.  The first break in the calm that had deceptively descended over Winterfell came in the form of a raven from the Lord of White Harbor, Lord Wyman Manderly.  Davos had anticipated the content of this raven, just not for several moon-cycles.  He read it twice and handed it to his King, then braced himself for the coming storm.


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa

Something was decidedly amiss. For over a fortnight, King Stannis seldom looked her in the eye at Small Council meetings and he did not seek her out to ask after the Princess or make other general inquiries the way he previously had. The Lord Hand’s manner toward her had changed as well, but less so. If she were to try to describe it, she would say they were more formal. However, that would not be accurate as they had never treated her informally. The King still treated her with respect, yet it was as if he was going out of his way to avoid her when she was making no great effort to seek his society to make it a necessary effort.

Once she realized this marked difference did, indeed, exist and that it was only growing more prevalent, Sansa spent the better part of two nights going over recent events, attempting to discern what she could have done to merit his displeasure or indifference. A full night’s sleep was a luxury she seldom enjoyed. However, these last two nights where she went over every past conversation with the King that she could remember were two of the worst nights she had been through since she Winterfell was rid of the Boltons. There was nothing she could think of that would merit his displeasure. And yet, she could not exactly say that displeasure is what it was. Sansa had seen how he reacted to those he was displeased with. Just a few days prior, she saw King Stannis railing furiously at Hugo Wull for something he said, his face becoming a dark purple and veins popping out on his neck. The second he saw her observing his tirade, the King stopped and walked away from Wull. He had never given her anything more than his most neutral of scowls. Nor had he raised his voice to her directly.

It was a mystery, yet it was also something so obvious that both Brienne and Walda agreed that his manner was markedly different when she asked them if they had observed such. Brienne was less interested in assisting her in determining what could be the cause of a change in his attitude towards her. “King Stannis not paying attention to you can only be for your good, My Lady.”

Walda, however, offered all sorts of opinions. Few were helpful. Sansa encouraged them to discuss their observations and in so doing, realized it wasn’t just King Stannis and the Hand whose demeanor had changed, but most everyone on his Small Council save Ser Axell. He was just as disagreeable this day as he was the first day she met him. That others of his Small Council were treating her differently was of concern, but she felt the alteration in the way the King treated her more acutely. Sansa thought to ask the Princess if her father had spoked about her or matters at Winterfell, but thought better of it. The little girl might ask her father outright as a result and that would not do. All speculation on the matter ceased after the Princess joined them when her lessons with Maester Pylos were done for the day.

The next morning, breathing heavily from waddling in a rush, Walda plopped down into one of the chairs of the solar and spoke to with her wet eyes wide. “I . . . know . . . what . . . troubles . . . the . . . king,” she squeaked, puffing out each word.

Sansa drew nearer, setting the mending she had been working on aside. “Collect yourself, Walda, and then tell us.”

Taking in large gulps of air and letting them out, the woman eventually resumed a more normal breathing. “I coaxed Artos into telling me what the King might be hiding with regard to you, My Lady. He tells me that Lord Manderly, with the backing of the mountain clans, is insisting he makes you his new queen. Lord Manderly has said he will only swear allegiance to _King_ Stannis if it is to _Queen_ Sansa as well.”

Closing her eyes, Sansa felt her body stiffen while she could hear her heart beating in her ears. She heard, rather than saw, Brienne pacing behind her. Once again, powerful men were exerting their power over her. Even as head of House Stark, men with seemingly less influence than she should have in her position were trying to make her do as they will for their own purposes.

“Artos says the King does not object to you as his queen. He objects to you being forced into taking yet another husband you do not want,” Walda continued. “I told him King Stannis was being silly. Of course, you may not want to marry him for himself, yet after marriage to my late stepson, you would want a husband who would leave you in peace most of the time. None better than King Stannis for that! He could protect you, as well.”

Sansa opened her eyes when she heard Brienne snarl, “She has me to protect her, you fool!” The lady knight was bent over Walda, who was cowering in her seat. Sansa challenged Brienne with a disapproving look for her discourtesy to Walda, and the lady knight backed away to return to pacing.

It was as if Walda could not help herself. “Why would you not wish to be the queen?”

“I wish to be no man’s wife any time soon, and I do not wish to be queen,” Sansa lamented, trying not to show just how distressed she truly felt at this revelation. Memories that were never far from her thoughts of her time at King’s Landing flooded her mind.

“But you must!” Walda insisted. “It is our duty to marry and, I assure you, it can be quite pleasant if the man is agreeable. Of course, King Stannis is not particularly agreeable. He is not ugly though. He has all his features still intact, well save all his hair.”

That she should one day marry again, she knew to be true, despite her resentment of it. Sansa was expected to make a marriage that would bring stability and provide an heir to Winterfell if her brothers were not to be found, and she had no idea whether what Theon told her was true or not. Nor, if it was true once, that it was still true. Two boys alone, one a cripple . . . she had to stop herself from thinking about that or she would break down in front of her companions. Even if her brothers were found and one took over as Lord Stark, it would only mean her brother would have a say in who she married for the sake of alliance or to be of benefit to Winterfell and the North.

Deep down, she knew King Stannis was a man to be respected and who meant to be just to those he was sovereign to. He, in no way, compared to the monsters Joffrey and Ramsay were. They were spoiled, willful boys who became monsters due to the power they were given over others. The King had married a woman he had no affection for and did not abuse her by all accounts. She met her own end. Stannis Baratheon was a man others feared and, for once, Walda had the right of it. He would protect her in ways Brienne could not for all her assertions otherwise. It was not that she objected to marrying him specifically. Given the options she could think of, which primarily included the remaining sons of Northern bannermen who were not captured, King Stannis was the best option. He would undoubtedly leave her alone until he visited her bedchamber on those nights he deigned to take the time to perform the functions necessary to attempt to begat an heir. Unlike Ramsay, Sansa knew it would fall well short of rape and torture. Be that as it may, it would still be an unwanted invasion of her body and someone else in control of her.

It was when she asked herself what Petyr Baelish would do in this situation that she truly found herself truly ill. That she had lowered herself to using the master at the manipulation of others for his gain as a model was a depth to which she did not want to sink. To her bemusement, the person whose counsel she wished to seek was also one she could only count on to act in the King’s best interest. Sansa did not have a Lord Seaworth to advise her. She had a lady warrior who behaved more as a man than a lady and a well-meaning, but simple minded lady who turned a blind eye to the depravity of the man she married because he was willing to warm her bed.

“Lady Brienne, would you be so kind as to ask Lord Seaworth if I might have a few moments of his time this afternoon.”

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” Brienne pressed.

She wasn’t, but she sent for the Lord Hand all the same. It was two hours before Brienne returned. With her was not Lord Seaworth, but King Stannis. Princess Shireen had finished her lessons for the day and joined them, learning to do a mending stitch. She rose with Sansa and Walda to curtsy to her father.

“Good afternoon,” he said formally in his graveled voice. “Lady Walda, please be so kind as to take the Princess out into the garden for some air. Lady Brienne will join you.”

Brienne looked ready to protest and Sansa stopped her with a stern look. Little Shireen stopped next to her father on the way out and smiled up at him. He acknowledged it with a nod, yet without a change of expression.

The protocol was that he would either sit and ask her to do the same or they would both remain standing. After the hours of mending that she had been doing while waiting for Brienne’s return, and given where this conversation was likely to go, standing was preferable.

“Lord Manderly has put a condition to his fealty, and the mountain clans and Mormonts support him despite already swearing their fealty to me.” King Stannis’ dark blue eyes were more animated than usual with suppressed agitation. “Are you aware of this condition?”

Taking a deep breath, Sansa met his gaze with as much steel as she could muster. “Only this day I have heard a rumor about this condition. I assure you I knew nothing about it beforehand.”

“There is no cause for alarm on that score, Lady Sansa.” the King replied, clearing his throat. “So you now know they wish us to marry. Might I know your opinion of this scheme?”

Sansa did not anticipate such a blunt question, although given what she did know of this man . . . this king . . . she should have. “Your Grace, I mean you no slight or disrespect. No . . . I do not wish to marry . . . you or anyone else at this time.”

“I can well imagine. It is not my wish either.”

She had this odd mix of relief and pique at being so easily dismissed. “Do you require Lord Manderly’s fealty, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” he affirmed without fanfare. “I do. However, I leave the decision to you after we review a few details. Please be seated.”

Sansa did as he instructed, returning to the chair with the basket of mending next to it.

With his hands folded behind his back and his scowl firmly in place, King Stannis stood before her, a few feet back from her chair, and spoke clearly. “I am a king without a throne. You were born to be a queen and have no prince worthy of you. Both of us had marriages that we did not want and do not wish to talk of. Yet you will need to marry one day, as will I. For my part, you are better than I deserve, even as a king. You would be taking on the role of mother to a child who is not yours; however, you have already done that. As a husband, I am too old for you and I am not at all sure I am a man who is capable of the sort of understanding you need after what you have endured with the Lannisters, Boltons, and Baelish. Should you agree to be my queen, and should we have sons, I would permit the second son to take the name of Stark and be heir to Winterfell unless one of his uncles is found to take their rightful place. I would never ask you to love me, despite the vows made before your old gods; however, I would treat you with respect and expect you to do the same. With that, My Lady, I take my leave of you. I bid you good evening.”

Before she could return to her feet and curtsy, the King was gone. He had taken a gamble in giving the decision to her. It was a good one. Lord Manderly, the mountain clans, and even the Mormonts would insist this marriage was in the best interests of the North. They wanted to follow a Stark, yet they also wanted to follow a man, not a woman. This marriage gave them both. It would save them from bickering and division among themselves as to which bannerman’s son she would marry. King Stannis was a known entity to them and one who had risked his life to drive out the Ironborn and the renegade Boltons. It would not matter that she had killed the worst of them with her own hands; she had also allowed herself to be his victim for a time.

Sansa slipped out of the solar, wishing to vacate it before Brienne, Walda, or the Princess returned. Once in her bedchamber, she lay on her bed wishing she could cry. She shook uncontrollably as if she were sobbing, but no tears came. Sansa lay there the rest of the day, turning away Brienne and servants.

The next morning, having a night of no sleep, Sansa washed and dressed, and went to the Small Council meeting. Before taking her seat at the table, she walked to where King Stannis and his Hand stood. Lord Seaworth greeted her with a bow and moved away. The King met her gaze levelly as she worried her lower lip to steady herself before addressing him. “Your Grace, if you wish it so, I will be your queen.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Stannis

The marriage took place in the Godswood with only Shireen and Davos in attendance, other than the two who were to be joined in marriage.  Stannis offered for her to have whomever she wished in attendance and Lady Sansa said they had all witnessed it before.  Davos asked the necessary questions that were provided to him in the book of ritual.  In a gown of Stark gray, Sansa walked toward him down the lantern-lit path with her head held high while those stunning Tully blue eyes held resignation and sadness.  When asked who gives her to be married, Lady Sansa simply replied “the North.” 

Food rationing made a feast impractical, not that he minded the lack of fanfare.  Less than an hour later, Stannis, dressed in a robe and undertunic, knocked on her bedchamber door.  A hoarse voice bid him enter with all of the proprieties and formalities due when addressing a king.  Once inside, he saw that she, too, wore a thick robe as she sat on the bed with her limbs covered by the bedclothes.  He could not tell what was underneath it.  What he did see was that her eyes still showed the same sad resignation while she tried to school the rest of herself for what she knew was expected.  He also thought he saw fear. 

“You have not been frightened of me before; you have no reason to be so now.”  Stannis tried to reassure her, keeping his graveled voice as low and non-threatening as was possible for him to do. 

“I have had reason to fear kings, powerful men, and husbands.”  Despite her lowered eyes, her words were defiant and he could hear the disdain. 

Stannis sat on the far edge of the bed.  “Understandable.  All three have had dominion over you and abused it, although it does surprisingly seem as though Lord Tyrion acted with some honor.  This time you have an advantage you did not before.  You now have a king and husband who will not unduly exercise his dominion over you unless you mean to undermine him, and who will protect you from any other powerful man . . . or woman . . . with his dying breath.  Still, that is something for which you do not yet have any confidence.  Therefore, it is required that we spend time together in your bedchamber.”  He wanted to remind her that she had agreed to this, nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.  His new wife had already been troubled enough by the intrigues for the Iron Throne.  All he could hope for was that his strategy of employing tactics with her was as successful they often proved to be in battle.  Only this time, his tactics had far more diplomacy involved than he generally had the skill or patience for. 

“This bedchamber is your domain.  Other than allowing me in for at least an hour a night, you are the ruler here.  You may talk to me during that hour and say what is truly on your mind, you may sleep while I sit, you may tell me to lay beside you while you sleep if that would make you feel safer, you will determine if or when we are to do our duty as man and wife, or you may ignore me.  I will expect you to treat me in your domain as you would wish me to treat you in mine.  If you wish to punish me for the wrongs done to you by others, I admit there will be limits.  You may ignore me, you may speak rudely to me, but you cannot harm the person of the king, even in this . . . your domain.  Will that do?”

Their eyes locked and he allowed her to digest his meaning.  “For how long?” Sansa finally asked. 

“This will always be the rule of your bedchamber, Your Grace, wherever that bedchamber happens to be.  You may relinquish power to me for short durations if it serves your purpose; however, it will be your doing, not mine.” 

“What do you hope to attain from this gesture?” she probed, clearly suspicious. 

“Trust,” Stannis replied evenly, realizing that the fact that she asked the question gained her something of value . . . more of his respect.  Gifts, especially from those in power, seldom come without a hidden agenda.  

He allowed her inspection of his face while Sansa obviously continued to consider what he was offering.  “So for tonight, our wedding night, if I ask you to merely sit in that chair, you would?”  Her tone denoted her disbelief. 

Stannis looked back at the chair.  It did not look to be comfortable, but he was in this for the duration.  “I admit I would not stay in it more than an hour unless you asked me to do otherwise.”

Sansa scoffed.  “And if I asked you to stay there until I fell asleep, and if I told you I have not slept more than a few hours a night for quite a while?”

“I have kept watch in less comfortable surroundings.  Is that what you wish; for me to sit here until you fall asleep?” 

“Yes,” she affirmed.  The defiance that had been in her tone was now evident in the look she gave him.  Stannis had to fight to keep from reacting to.    

“Then I bid my lady wife a good night,” Stannis countered, removing himself from the edge of the bed and sitting in the chair.  Fortunately, it was more comfortable than it looked.  He wondered if there was more to her request than merely asserting the power he had given her.  Did she truly have trouble sleeping because she was afraid and someone keeping watch would allow her to sleep?  Somehow, Stannis knew he should not leave in an hour.  He said he would stay until she fell asleep, nonetheless, she needed to see that he meant it.  He would need to be here when she awoke. 

At first, she lay on her side with her back to him.  Stannis sat there staring into the flames of the fireplace, not looking for a vision from Melisandre’s god, but deep in thought of how he wanted to get revenge for his wife, for Ned’s daughter, on those left who had made her so frightened and wary.  Joffrey was no more.  Davos said he believed Tyrion Lannister had been kind to her from what he could piece together.  She had done away with Ramsey Bolton, running him through with a sword at the start of battle, and Stannis had executed Roose Bolton.  That left Littlefinger, who left her here to be used by the Boltons.  The idea of getting rid of Baelish and having good cause to do so other than his general dislike and distrust of the man was diverting for all of half an hour. 

Stannis thought of Shireen and how, one day, it would be expected that she make a political marriage.  He didn’t want that for her.  He didn’t want that for the children he may have from the woman lying too stiff and quiet in her bed for him to believe she would fall asleep any time soon.  If he denied his duty to be king of Westeros, he could have left Shireen to have a peaceful life and marry, or not, as she saw fit.  He might not have progeny to carry on after they were gone . . . worse things have happened.  He always did his duty.  The trick was to see that her duty did not include a marriage Shireen did not want like this poor girl had to face not once, but three times. 

Unable to sleep himself, at least not at the moment, Stannis went over the day’s reports, particularly those on the rebuilding efforts.  He wasn’t sure how long he had been mulling over his logistical plans when he heard a deep, steady breathing from Sansa that he attributed to sleep.  Looking over, her body seemed far more relaxed under the fur that covered it.  The servants would know he had not been in that bed or, if he had, he had not bedded her.  It would have to be.  All Stannis could do was hope the present course of action he set for the two of them worked.  Closing his eyes, he managed to drift to sleep. 

The next morning, a servant girl walked in and quickly ran out as soon as she spied him in the chair.  Stannis stood, stretched, and then restarted the fire and stoked it.  It was while doing this that he heard Sansa yawn and the sounds of movement. 

“Did you stay through the night in that chair, Your Grace?” Stannis heard her ask from behind him. 

“Yes.”  Stannis continued his ministrations with the fire until it was burning to his satisfaction.  Standing again, he turned to see Sansa sitting up in bed.  _Beautiful_ was too banal a word.  Yesterday, the word applied.  She had been beautiful, yet she had also been tired, depressed, and stoic.  At this moment, none of those seemed present in her first moments of her waking.  Stannis had to practically shake himself to keep from staring as he watched her wipe the sleep from her eyes and then stretch.  She was not exactly smiling; neither was she schooling her features into her usual reserve.  “I shall let your handmaid know you are ready for her.  I would ask your permission to withdraw; however, this is the time when I must return to my domain.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he heard her say as he started to leave.  This time, it did not sound forced or as though it was said solely out of propriety. 

When the queen joined them for the Small Council a few hours later, the cool, stoic demeanor had returned.   At least, Stannis told himself, he believed he had seen a glimpse of the trusting, contented girl she had once been . . . if only for a moment.  


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa

The first four nights after their wedding, she asked him to keep watch while she slept, and each morning, she woke to the sound of the King, her husband, stirring a fire in the fireplace.  What astounded her, from the very first night, was how well she slept and how quickly she fell asleep.  Since the murder of her father, it usually took hours to succumb and she slept fitfully until the nights where exhaustion came and she slept for half a day. 

King Stannis said he meant for her to trust him.  Sansa had no idea what purpose or scheme having her trust served.  She was just certain that it did serve something.  That much she had learned from all her experiences since she left Winterfell the first time.  If she were being honest, King Stannis had been her hero, riding in with an army to take Winterfell from the Boltons and give it back to the Starks.  She had heard how, not realizing there was a Stark still living, he had offered to legitimize Jon Snow.  Once, that would have filled her with disdain.  Oh how she had changed!  Furthermore, he had included her in decisions regarding Winterfell when his station meant he did not need to despite it being her home, not his.  What made King Stannis go from hero to villain was his suddenly being able to be husband to someone who might provide him with an heir.  It did not matter that he didn’t seek their marriage and that her bannermen had forced them both into it.  It did not matter that he didn’t look at her like she was property to be played with.  It did not even matter that, although he was older and scowled most of the time, she did not find him . . . unappealing.  Truth be told, there was something about the intensity of his eyes and his brooding manner that calmed her.  This calmness she felt in his presence helped her sleep.  However, Sansa had not married him out of her own sense of obligation.  Once again, it was others telling her what to do and making her to feel she had no other choice.  It was equally true that she did not need to heed the wishes of her bannermen, although she also knew not doing so was equally unwise.  It was politically advantageous to the North and, as a Stark, she had to make the North her primary concern.  To his credit, King Stannis did not seem to wish to take her against her will. 

The real problem was that, deep down inside, she wanted the love and protection of a husband and she wanted children. Ramsey and the Lannisters had not robbed her of the “want”.  They had robbed her of the belief in it being possible, for her at least.  King Stannis freely offered her his protection and he would attempt to give her children if she would allow.  So far, he was true to his word that it was her decision.  The fact that he did not love her and she did not love him was something Sansa knew she had to accept.  Indeed, the realization that she might actually attain two of the three things she desired most, even if the one left out was the one she wanted most of all, was more than she had hoped for.  Sansa respected King Stannis . . . her husband.  Trust was something entirely different.  What she found strange and tried, to no avail, to caution herself against was that she had immediately trusted the Lord Hand.   That was yet another departure from the girl who left Winterfell.  That girl would have been appalled that a low-born man such as Davos Seaworth would have been elevated to his current station above so many others who were high-born.  King Stannis had elevated many based on their skill and loyalty, and possibly even their personal integrity, rather than their birth.   Before marriage was mentioned, this aspect of him was one of the things that most earned her respect. 

Sansa couldn’t help testing how far this resolve of King Stannis’ to give her dominion over her bedchamber went, given his two caveats that she allow him access for an hour and did not harm his person.  He did not complain of the nights sleeping in the chair or of her lack of conversation.  Tonight, she would try something different.  The King would be allowed to stay his hour and then she would ask him to return to his bedchamber.  She did, however, plan to fill that hour with conversation . . . he did not say she could not command him to tell her things she wished to know during that hour. 

As he had the past four nights, the King rapped on the door and waited for her to bid him enter from where she sat upright in the bed.  As he had the last three nights, he greeted her by saying, “Good evening, Your Grace,” and stood near the doorway until she offered for him to sit in the chair that had become his bed. 

“I wish to ask you questions this night, Your Grace.”  She started to ask him if that was acceptable, but bit it back.  The King would have to take the power he’d given her away.  Sansa would not idly give it back to him. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” King Stannis replied in that deceptively calm, graveled voice she admired for all its edge and lack of bluster.  “I have promised myself to tell you nothing but the truth.  All I ask is that you are absolutely certain you want to know the answer to anything you do ask.” 

Sansa found that an odd caution and found it even more odd that she did not doubt he would tell her the unpolished truth. 

“You want me to trust you.  What purpose does it serve . . . for you?”

The King did not look at her.  Instead, he stared at the fire.  “Queen Selyse hated me.  Be that as it may, I am fairly certain I had her trust in that she knew I had no great regard for her either, yet in all our years, I did not actively seek to do her harm or remove her from her position as my wife.  This trust was borne out of her belief in my sense of what was right and wrong.  I wish I could tell you that I held to that always, but it is not so.  I did try for the most part.  You, however, left Winterfell a girl full of expectations and your hates were probably not true hate as much as prejudices given you by your upbringing and the ill-feelings one has a child against anyone who stops them from doing what they wish to do.  Not true hate.  You learned that at King’s Landing and with reason.  You trusted people and when they betrayed and used you, you learned to hate them for it.  Now, you are loathe to trust anyone without them proving themselves first.  I, too, know what it feels like to be betrayed by those you feel you should have been able to trust.  It took years to learn that there were those out there you could, indeed, place your trust and faith in.  I could not trust my brothers, but I could trust a low-born smuggler from Flea Bottom.  I should have trusted your father, but I did not . . . merely because of his association with Robert.  You told My Lord Hand a story of Robert having your direwolf killed when it was your sister’s direwolf that attacked Joffrey, albeit for good reason.  I cringed at the injustice when I heard the story, until I realized the similarity in that to what I had long held in my lack of regard for your father.  I blamed him and not the person whom I should have . . . Robert.  To say that it was not politically expedient for me to save Winterfell would be lying.  To say that I am glad there is a Stark left here to save with it for Ned’s sake has nothing to do with politics.  I am equally certain that while I no longer feel Ned held me in the disdain I once believed he did, he would not be content to see his beloved daughter married to me.  As I said before, I do not expect you to love me, Sansa.  I do want your trust and I will do what I can to earn it.  With that trust, I admit I hope to have a wife who does not hate me . . . I may be wrong, but I do not think you capable of hating one you trust.” 

It was quite a speech and much for her to take in.  While she would not say it to him, he was correct.  Trust was so rare to her now that she could not hate anyone she trusted.  There were so many out there to hate for that reason as it was. 

“Queen Selyse . . . did you give her this same dominion over her bedchamber?”

“I did not take her by force, if that is what you mean to ask.” King Stannis replied.  “Neither of us found pleasure in each other, but we did our duty.”

This was getting to heart of what bothered Sansa about the King’s delay in their bedding.  “You are reputed for doing your duty.  Why was it your duty to bed her on your wedding night when she did not want you and not me?”

King Stannis continued to stare into the fire and not look at her.  The light showed what Sansa had come to refer to as his natural scowl, as opposed to the varying degrees of angry scowls.  “It never occurred to either of us to do other than what was expected.  I’d prefer to think I did not rape her as there was no force involved on my part, but given she had no wish for me to . . . that may be just what I did.  I can only hope, looking back, that the difference was that I did not seek to harm or abuse her.” 

The gossip and giggles of others had let Sansa know that men could be selfish in their bedding, in that they took their pleasure and cared little for the pleasure of their lady, while it fell short of rape.  Or, it could be quite the opposite once the maidenhead was no longer an obstacle or suffered having been breached.  Knowing rape firsthand, she doubted the man she was watching would do such a thing, even in the bloodlust of battle that Cercei had tried to scare her by talking of the night of the Battle of Blackwater.  However, she could imagine the King being particularly unschooled in being a thoughtful lover.  She imagined it was not high on his list of skills he sought to cultivate. 

“Have you ever loved a woman, Your Grace?”

“I assume you speak of the feeling your parents were reputed to have for one another and not the feelings of a father for a daughter or son for his lady mother.”  Sansa did not answer for she knew it wasn’t really a question as much as a qualifying statement.  “There was a woman I once felt a great need for and it was, at times, consuming.  But no, I cannot qualify my passion for her as the type of regard I believe you to be referring to.” 

Sansa noted that he did not seem to want to say the word _love_ when he was talking about a feeling he might have.  He had earlier said he did not expect her to love him, but he carefully avoided the word here.  She wasn’t quite sure what that meant.   Sansa also did not need him to tell her the woman he was referring to as his passion.  She had heard the whispers about the hold the Red Priestess had previously some hold on him until she tried the unthinkable.  What was a bit disconcerting was Sansa’s physical reaction to his admission of it.  She indulged the moment of jealousy by asking, “As you are not taking advantage of your position as king and husband, do you plan to find someone else to indulge such appetites as your brother, King Robert, did?” 

The question got the first real reaction she had from him this evening.  Even in the firelight, she could see his jaw clench and one of his less intense angry scowls emerge.  “Doing so would hardly be conducive to earning your trust.” 

“That was not a yes or a no,” Sansa pressed, more to test his patience than needing a real answer.

“If you insist, _no_ , I have no such intentions!”  Then the angry scowl subsided and an expression she was not prepared for emerged . . . the King smirked.  The why of it turned her red from both embarrassment and anger, only anger at herself, not him.  He realized her jealousy and, as such, realized a victory.  It was a victory he wanted her to know he was fully aware of. 

Sansa tried to sound bored and tired.  “Is our hour up, Your Grace?  When it is, I bid you good night and hope you pass a pleasant night in your own bed after the nights spent in that chair.”  What she hoped was that he would note that only half of an hour had passed and that he would sit in silence for the remainder of the hour and she could feel that curious peace that allowed sleep she felt when he was in the room. 

“No, an hour has not passed, but I shall leave you to your sleep.”  He said, getting up and going for the bedchamber door.  The King paused and their eyes met.  She knew hers still held rebelliousness and his, well, he appeared to be studying her.  “Good night, Your Grace,” the King offered finally, and with that, he left her. 

Sansa slept little that night, cursing herself for allowing King Stannis to leave when she need not have.  She couldn’t go on asking a king to sleep in a chair in her bedchamber.  Seeing him during the part of the Small Council sessions she sat in on in the mornings, she saw little else of him during the day.  Walda, Brienne, and the Princess found her less conversant than usual as she pondered the question of how to reasonably ask him to stay the night in her bedchamber without seeming to invite his attentions. 

Having no clear solution when night came, she was prepared to talk of the day for the hour or whatever time the King felt appropriate.  Sansa knew she could ask him to stay in the chair as before, but could not bring herself to do so. 

After she bid him enter, the King took her invitation to sit in the chair and for lack of anything else to say, she asked him, “Why do you want to be king, Your Grace?”

“I do not _want_ to be king.  I am, and therefore, must do my duty.” 

Sansa started to say that he had claimed it was his duty to marry and produce an heir, yet he did not seem to feel compelled to act on that duty.  She stopped herself, grateful that he did not feel that duty required him to force himself on her and wondering why she would think such a thing, let alone almost say it except as something to vex him.  That bothered her as well.  King Stannis had done nothing to earn her enmity except marry her, and in so doing, was showing her every courtesy.  What courtesy she was showing him was cold and hollow. 

“Your Grace, you cannot sleep in that chair night after night, and . . . well . . . “ Sansa did not know how to explain that she was able to sleep while he was in the room.  “Would you be more comfortable on this side of the bed . . . to sleep, of course?  You may stay or leave as you desire after I fall asleep.” 

His only answer was to rise from the chair and lay on his back on the left side of the bed as she huddled as far to the right as possible.  He did not take off his robe, and she realized it was probably meant to make her less intimidated.  “Good night, Your Grace,” was all he said.


	8. Chapter 8

Walda

Winterfell was abuzz with talk of the King and Queen who spent nights together, but did not truly bed each other.  Artos complained that it was making the King more temperamental during his Council sessions, particularly after the Queen left the session for the day.  No one she had heard comment on it seemed to understand why he stayed in her bedchamber night after night, yet did not partake of his right as her husband. 

Where this was said to make the King gruffer than usual to deal with, Walda could only note that it improved Sansa’s disposition a great deal, not that she could have complained of it beforehand.  What she meant was that Sansa looked more radiant, as if she was rested and relaxed.  She was even more cheerful.  These, to her way of thinking, were signs of a woman who was being well bedded.  Walda considered the notion that the servant had only found the king out of bed at an early hour and sitting in the chair having put his boots on or some such.  And that perhaps King Stannis did not waste any of his seed by spilling any on the bed linen, which is why the laundress did not find any evidence of it when questioned.  Perhaps the King found some way to ensure it all stayed within the Queen in an attempt to seek the heir everyone assumed he wanted.  Walda did ask Artos who had the courage to risk the King’s fury at questioning anything to do with him of the Winterfell laundress.  She could only believe the King’s former good uncle, Ser Axell, either had no fear or no sense. 

Curiosity getting the better of her, Walda had considered trying to listen in the hall when everyone had retired, but one could not get close enough with the King’s Guard at both the door to what had once been her bedchamber as well as the adjoining bedchamber the King used.  She missed that bed.  It was far more comfortable than the one she shared for a time with Lady Brienne until she and Artos managed to find a room they could occupy together. 

Despite now being Queen, Walda saw little change in Sansa’s day to day life.  That seemed strange to her.  One should see an advantage to being a queen, if only in the lessening of the work one had to do.  Sansa still assisted in the kitchen, mended clothes for all manner of folk present at Winterfell, attended the Small Council, reviewed the stores, made candles, and taught Princess Shireen in areas that her maester could not.  The latter could afford great fun and hilarity, such as when the little princess asked to learn some of the dances she might one day get to do where there ever a time when they could have a feast with dancing.  Poor Sansa found it difficult to act as the man in the dance and had Brienne try while she coached.  Brienne was far too tall for the child, so they had to reverse roles and have Brienne and Walda try coaching while Sansa returned to the role of the man in the dance.  For the hour a day for several days that Sansa allowed for this sort of frivolity, it had made them all peel with laughter, including Brienne.  When she thought about it, Walda realized it was the first time she had seen Sansa truly laugh as well. 

Both the King and the Queen attended her wedding to Artos in the Godswood a little over a sennight after their own.  The Queen gave her away as Warden of the North.  She found Artos far more handsome than Roose, despite being older.  He was also far kinder and easier to love than Roose.  Sansa apologized for the lack of a feast and gifted her with one of her favorite gowns made over to accommodate her increase due to the babe.  Five moon-cycles of being with child had increased the size of her belly while food rationing had actually made other parts of her smaller.  When she peered into the looking glass, she realized her face was not quite as round as it once was.     

The King said little after the wedding, not even words of congratulations.  He merely offered his arm to his queen after the ceremony was over and walked her back to the great house.  Unlike his King, Artos did not feel compelled to attend the Council meeting the day after his wedding.  Walda found more than a little pride in this.  She knew she was not considered a beauty, especially compared to Sansa, but had proved herself highly sufficient in one important aspect. 

Late the morning after her wedding, Walda joined Sansa and Brienne in the solar as Sansa read reports she brought from the Small Council.  Walda made sure she had one day free to avoid being of service in the kitchen.  She tried to find an opening for mentioning that she enjoyed her night, since no one asked.  Of course, Sansa and Brienne knew she had been enjoying nights with Artos for many weeks now.  Had she been able to make such a remark, she might have found a way to ask the Queen about her wedding night.  Then again, Sansa was so proper and reserved; she would have found a way to deflect the question or worse, told her outright that such a question was improper.  Walda had heard Sansa’s screams when she was married to Ramsay and she knew they were not screams of passion.   Had what he had done to her made Sansa unable to be with another man, even if that man was a king?  If so, why had everyone been so adamant that they marry? 

There was much about politics she did not want to understand.  It was bad enough that politics would one day take her child away from her.  At least she no longer had to fear she would see the death of her babe.  Since he was the brother of the Lord of House Flint of the Mountains with no lands of his own, Artos said he would eventually ask that they would be allowed to stay at Winterfell, possibly acting as castellan after the King and his men move south.  There were other lords who would vie for the position, yet he had served the King well in the battles to get to Winterfell.  Artos allowed that he would take a lesser position and be glad of it if it allowed them to stay.  She did feel like Winterfell was her home, not The Twins or Dreadfort, and hopefully not some smaller abode further north.  There were those who still saw the Boltons when they looked at her.  That Sansa was not one of them, or if she was, that she was able to set it aside was something Walda was daily thankful for.  The women in her own blood family had not been half as kind to her as the lady who was now the Queen of Westeros.  Walda wanted Sansa to be happy and be at peace.  If that meant the King not touching her and there being no male heir to his reign or for Winterfell, then so be it. 


	9. Chapter 9

Stannis

Stannis disciplined himself to take start taking stock of his surroundings as he awoke before opening his eyes.  He didn’t immediately respond when something was amiss until he had made a full assessment.  Something was definitely amiss.  There was something lying on his right side covering a quarter of his side.  His hand was positioned against the back of whatever it was.  As consciousness set it, he assessed that it was warm, soft yet firm, and faintly smelled of flowers . . . it smelled like . . . Stannis opened his eyes wide, careful to make no other movement.  He was in Sansa’s bed as he had been the last four nights, only this morning, instead of being curled into a ball on the other side, Sansa lay against him.  Her head lay in the crook of his shoulder and one leg was bent over his. 

His initial reaction was alarm that Sansa could attach herself to him in the middle of the night and him not wake up.  Stannis could not remember a time when he slept so deeply that such was remotely possible.  It was then that it hit him.  In their sleep, Sansa had moved to the side of the bed he occupied and curled up against him.  Totally without conscious thought, Stannis had put his arm around her and she had let him.  It was hard not to see this as a victory, although it really wasn’t.  Stannis had little doubt that if Sansa awoke now, she would scurry away from him to the far side of the bed and begin panicked apologies. 

While deciding what to do, Stannis recalled the previous night after he entered her bedchamber.  He had been annoyed at the sounds in the hall from Walda Flint’s moans, having already told Artos once that should the Princess ever inquire about it, they would be made to sleep in the stables.  As she had the previous three nights, Sansa started by asking questions.  One night, she had him tell her about how Shireen contracted greyscale.  Sansa had cried that night, but still cowered away from him.  The night before last, she had asked him questions about his belief, or lack thereof, in R’hllor, the old gods, and the new.  Stannis suspected he learned more about her attempts to believe in both the old and new gods than she learned about him. 

Last night, her questions had been far more interesting from his perspective.  Sansa had wanted to know what he expected from a queen, other than to provide an heir and rear children.  The key item he noted was that Sansa seemed to accept that at least attempting to provide an heir was an still expectation.  Stannis did not dissuade her of this notion, nor did he confirm it.  Instead, he talked of desiring that she would assist Davos in smoothing the feathers that he would undoubtedly ruffle among the nobles while attempting to assist him in seeing to the less fortunate of the small folk.  Sansa had been quite animated about that last and somewhere in their discussions of how to improve conditions for a war-torn Westeros, she moved over and merely patted the bed in invitation for him to lie down.  Both lay on their backs as Sansa told him about the desperate people who had threatened her life in King’s Landing when walking with Joffrey and his retinue.  Stannis remembered she fell asleep shortly after finishing that story and it took him a while longer to calm himself in order to sleep.  Whenever he heard about her time at King’s landing, he became incensed and it took him a great deal of time to settle. 

Now, here was his wife snuggled against him in a way that was foreign to him, yet not unwelcomed . . . at least not to him.  As deeply as she seemed to be sleeping, he could probably extricate himself from her without waking her.  What he debated was whether he could move her to the other side of the bed.  _Should he?  If she awoke and discovered herself positioned where he had lain, would she question it?_   

Giving in to an urge, Stannis leaned his head forward and kissed the top of her head.  Her reaction was to stir ever so slightly and snuggle closer.  In so doing, Sansa moved her hand farther up his chest.  As most men, Stannis had an arousal upon awakening and his punishment for kissing Sansa in her domain without her permission was for that arousal to become excruciating.  He couldn’t risk extracting himself from her side and have Sansa wake to discover him looming over her with an erection.  Nothing would frighten her more. Being able to feel her and smell her was not helping him regain control quickly. 

Eventually, Stannis was able to make the necessary moves to pull away from her.  Sansa made a sound he thought was a protest at the loss of his body heat, so he settled the bedlinen to cover her arms and shoulders.  Stannis was embarrassed at how badly he wanted to crawl back into that bed with her.  He could not remember the last time, if ever, he had not wanted to get out of bed and get on with the necessities of the day.    

The next sennight followed the same pattern.  Heretofore, there were very few people with whom he felt like having a genuine conversation.  Finding out his queen was one of them was unexpected.  Even when she was testing him, it was at least interesting or revealing.  There were times when he learned something about himself he had not considered and others when he learned about her.  Sansa would start the conversation and eventually move over in the bed as an invitation for her to join her.  She still made sure she was on the right side of the bed, although she stopped hugging the edge as she did the first few nights.  And each night, he slept in both his robe and undertunic.  Sansa would fall asleep first and he would soon follow suit.  Each morning, he would awaken with her lying against him and his arm around her. 

This morning, Sansa stirred while he lit a fire in the grate.  She rose, stretched, and sweetly wished him good morning without reserve or caution.  It was a moment like the one he’d witnessed the first night . .  . one where she truly smiled at him.  It gave him that cruelest of things . . . hope.  Stannis realized giving her dominion in her bedchamber was having the desired effect in making her more comfortable around him.  It was not working as well for him.  At what point his desired consequence of this exchange of power went from merely wanting to get Sansa to trust him enough to be able to fulfill her duty as queen without hating him in the process to wanting her to see him as more than duty, Stannis did not know.   What he did know was that if he awoke on the morrow to find her in his arms again, he was going to see to it that she awoke to find herself there as well.   He might find himself back in the chair or his own bedchamber, but Stannis wasn’t sure how much more he could take of waking to the smell of her and the feel of her and having to steel himself from the desire to make her his wife in every sense of the word.  


	10. Chapter 10

Pod

As Sworn Shield of the Queen, Brienne of Tarth did not feel the need for a squire by her side.  She had, however, given him another task.  Pod was to discretely keep an eye on the Queen during those times when she sent her Sworn Shield to the training yards.  Queen Sansa was determined not to have Lady Brienne with her at all times, such as now when she walked the courtyard inside Winterfell with Princess Shireen.  Arguably, there were many around who could protect her and it was a good time for his lady to train. 

Pod thought on the changes he had seen in Queen Sansa over the time he’d known of her.  He had never so much as spoken to her, yet he had observed much.  His first sight of her as squire to Lord Tyrion had been of a frightened girl who was careful of her every move and every word.  After she was forced to marry his former lord, there was a time when she smiled and seemed more at ease.  That lady had been ever courteous despite being unable to love his lord or act as his wife.  Her eyes would light up when his lord would tell a funny or slightly wicked story and she laughed easily when in company she had come to trust. 

It was a matter of curiosity that Queen Sansa was married to yet another that, if rumors were true, she could not bring herself to bed.  Pod knew of Ramsay Bolton’s reputation and he assumed the monster would rape and torture a wife, even if she had meant to come to him willingly.  It made Pod wonder if there would ever have been a man that the Queen would have bedded willingly.  He had found it such a pleasurable activity, as did the women and girls he had bedded, that he was a bit befuddled in why the Queen would object to it so strongly. 

At any rate, Pod saw yet another series of changes in the Queen while at Winterfell, just as he had seen them at King’s Landing.  When they first came upon her with Lord Baelish, he found a serene woman rather than a girl.  She was even more breathtakingly beautiful.  Her eyes did not hold fear as much as determination.  While his lady was not seeking his opinion, if she had asked at the time, he would have said Lady Sansa viewed Lord Baelish as someone to be trusted.  His first glimpse of her at Winterfell told him that if she had indeed believed that to have been true, she no longer did.  Her actions and speech were not of one who was afraid, but there was no mistaking that fear and distrust were her chief companions. 

In the short time since she had married King Stannis, he caught glimpses of the lady he remembered walking behind and hearing laugh at one of Lord Tyrion’s stories.  Most of the time, she maintained a passive demeanor, but not always.  Granted, the times he saw her smile and laugh were with the Princess, such as now.  He hadn’t seen it with the King.  Then again, he hadn’t been around the two of them together either. 

Pod did as his lady bid and kept a watchful eye on the Queen and Princess as they strolled the larger of the interior courtyards.  The Queen pointed out various rebuilding efforts to the Princess as workers went about their tasks.  It was obvious that the progress of rebuilding Winterfell delighted Her Grace. 

Pod remained alert when he would see one of the workers approach the Queen.  She invited them to discuss details and issues with her, which he knew made his lady wary.  The Queen was having a conversation with the master carpenter when a commotion was heard from high overhead.  Pod started to run in their direction as a load of debris came over the top of the high wall above them.  He saw Queen Sansa look up and then push the Princess away from her as the first of the debris began to rain down on her and the carpenter.  By the time he reached her, both the Queen and the carpenter were on the ground. 

Other workers in the yard rushed to the scene as well.  The Queen lay unconscious although most of the debris had fallen on the carpenter, who Pod suspected was dead from the amount of blood that ran onto the snow.  The first thing Pod did was check to see if he could feel her heartbeat in the vein in her neck.  He wanted to remove her from the snow, but thought better of it should she be suffering a broken bone he might only make worse.  Removing the small rocky debris that was still upon her person, he spoke to the first onlooker who caught his eye.  “Go to where the Small Council is meeting and bring the King and Maester Pylos . . . hurry!”  Several must have thought the instruction was meant for them because more than one took off to go inside the great house. 

The Princess knelt beside him, tears were falling down her face and she was shaking.  “Do not worry, Princess.  The Queen is alive.  I believe she may be bruised and possibly have a broken bone, but she lives.” 

To yet another person looming over them staring down at the scene, Pod yelled another instruction.  “Go to the training yard and bring back Brienne of Tarth!” 

The Queen began to stir.  “Please be still Your Grace.  We need to wait for the Maester to ensure you have not broken a bone.” 

Despite his objection, she tried to rise just as King Stannis, Maester Pylos, and the rest of the Small Council descended upon them.  The King had actually been running and pushed people aside to get to her, kneeling on one knee next to her across from where Pod was crouched beside her.  “How did this happen?” he demanded in a loud bark, glaring at Pod for answers.

He opened his mouth to speak, yet it was the Queen in a weak voice who answered him first.  “Rubble from above . . . Princess, are you unharmed?”

Pod moved to make room for Maester Pylos just as the little Princess was reassuring the Queen, joining those standing nearby.  The maester began to examine her while the King took her hand, a gesture Pod was certain no one missed.  “Mister Hendley?” the Queen attempted to ask about the carpenter, wincing yet not screaming as the maester checked first her head, where they was a small wound, and then her limbs in the confines of her gown. 

Lord Seaworth discretely gave instructions to other workers regarding the carpenter’s body, and they began to take it away, leaving a trail of blood.  About this time his lady arrived; she was about to speak when the King rasped out to Lord Seaworth, “I want whomever is responsible for this hanged before the day is out!”

Queen Sansa squeezed his hand.  “No, Your Grace.  Please!”  All could see that every word caused her pain.  

He turned his attention to her.  “You could have been killed!” 

She turned her face to him, obviously causing her pain, “Please.  It was an accident.  We will learn from this, but not punish those who meant no harm.” 

Pod could tell King Stannis was not so sure it was an accident or if he was, he did not believe it did not warrant the measure he meant for it.  Still, he nodded at Lord Seaworth and it seemed that nod meant to belay the order.   Queen Sansa seemed to accept it as such for she relaxed the hold on his hand. 

“Your Grace,” Maester Pylos finally spoke.  “I do not believe Her Grace has any broken bones.  She should be moved to her chamber where her handmaids can assist me in a further examination.

Once again, the Queen tried to rise up.  As she did so, the King scooped her up in his arms and rose with her held against his doublet.  Lady Brienne moved forward as if to protest that she would carry the Queen and Pod grabbed her arm in an attempt to stop her long enough to think better about what she about to do.  Her Grace was not protesting.  Indeed, she relaxed her head upon her husband’s shoulder and appeared grateful as he walked with her toward the house.  King Stannis would not take kindly to Lady Brienne's interference, he was quite certain.  

His lady looked down at his hand on her arm and Pod quickly let go.  “Rubble from above.  Killed the master carpenter and Her Grace caught some of it.”  He thought answering her questions might keep her from biting his head off.  Princess Shireen came to where they stood and reached for his lady’s hand.  Without a word, she led Lady Brienne toward the house to follow her father. 


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa

Her head throbbed and she felt nauseous as Stannis carried through the Great Hall and up the stairs.  Sansa felt pain, primarily in her shoulders and back; sticky blood spilled from her temple down onto her cheek.  “I’m taking you into my chamber so that your bed will not be soiled,” Stannis informed her as they reached the top of the great stairs.  She was covered in the granite dust that came down with the larger pieces of granite.  The largest of what rained down on them could have been no more than half the size of the palm of her hand, yet the height from which they dropped, coupled with the number of them, were enough to take the life of Winterfell’s master carpenter and cause her great pain. 

Stannis gently laid her atop the rich tapestry bedclothes.  Maester Pylos and her handmaid, Melesa, followed with Lady Brienne standing in the doorway behind them.   The young maester poured water from the pitcher on the wash stand into the basin and wet a linen cloth.  He then handed the basin to the Melesa who held it as he dabbed the wound on her temple.  She saw more granite dust than blood on the linen as he rinsed it in the basin and dabbed he wound again.  He repeated the action several times under Stannis’ watchful eye and intense scowl.  Despite the pain, she had the fleeting thought that his scowl did not frighten her, yet it was something she was going to have to deal with.  He was angry that the Princess and she had been put in danger and would want to hold someone responsible.  Sansa would not allow someone to be punished for an accident at Winterfell.

Maester Pylos addressed Melesa.  “We will withdraw.  Please help Her Grace take off her cape and gown, and leave her in her small clothes.”  Sansa felt her body tense and it caused a rush of pain.  The maester must have witnessed it, “Your Grace, I will be as unobtrusive as I possibly can.  Your handmaid will check your person as I instruct.”  During the days before Queen Selyse succumbed to her burns, Lord Seaworth explained that Maester Pylos did not have a medical chain; however, he had trained himself to deal with wounds. 

Melesa helped her remove her soiled clothing and she moved to the edge of the bed to try to shake some of the granite dust from her hair.  Every move of her head was excruciating.   True to his word, the maester turned his back as Melesa reviewed her limbs, back, and shoulders.   Melesa described deep purple bruises, but no gashes other than the one on her temple.  Sansa knew she was most fortunate. 

“Your Grace, you will need to rest yet stay awake for several hours to ensure there is no internal damage from the wound to your head.  Soaking in warm water will help your bruises and ease your pain, and I am sure you would like to bathe; however, you cannot go to the hot springs until tomorrow. “

Her handmaid interrupted, “Maester, we have a wash barrel that can be filled for the Queen to soak in.  I can help bathe Her Grace in that.”

Sansa rested as servants brought the bathing barrel to the King’s bedchamber, setting it close to the bed so that she would would not have far to go to reach it.  Water was carried as far as the hall from the kitchen and Melesa poured the hot water into the tub and set two cauldrons of water in the fireplace hung over an open flame.  From outside the slightly open door, she heard Stannis dismiss Lady Brienne with an order to watch over the Princess.  Her Sworn Shield did not want to accept the order, but had the good sense to realize now was not the time to stand up to her King . . . not that she imagined there ever was such a time. 

When the elongaged barrel was full and Melesa had helped her take her off her small clothes and descend into the water, Sansa expected she would stay and assist her in sponging off and washing the dust out of her hair.  Instead, Melesa left the room and Stannis stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

He did not step any further into the room and for a moment, their eyes locked as she pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around the back of her legs. 

“Do not send me away.”  It was a request . . . not an order.  Sansa found herself unable to reply.  It wasn’t that she feared asking him to leave.  Despite the fact that this was his bedchamber and not the room in which he had given her dominion, Sansa knew he would leave if she asked him to do so. 

Stannis took her silence as agreement.  Slowly, he crossed the room and pulled up a chair behind the barrel so that he as facing her back.  Firm fingers lightly traced her bare skin as she leaned forward against her knees.  She could only assume he was inspecting the bruises he saw there.  “Give me the sponge and soap before you.”  His voice was barely above a whisper; it did not frighten her. 

Sansa complied and felt the now lathered barely warm sponge trace down her back, hearing a swooshing sound as he moved it in and out of the water before running it down her back and shoulders again.  “Does this hurt?”

“No,” she replied, not being entirely truthful.  The slightest touch to her bruises brought a small measure of pain, yet the water was soothing and the motions he made with the sponge were relaxing.   What Sansa did not understand was why she was not shaking; why she was not afraid.  Stannis extended his arm until she could see the sponge on front of her and she took it from him.  “I am going to wash your hair.” 

He picked up the bowl Melesa sat beside the wash barrel.  Stannis filled and refilled the bowl with water, pouring it down from her the top of her head until her hair was completely saturated.   Lathering the soap in his hands after he put the bowl back down on the stone floor, Stannis splayed his long fingers into her hair, spreading the lather through her hair and then rubbing her scalp.  Sansa leaned back into his hands, the feel of his fingers rubbing her scalp calming her and making her forget the ache from her bruises.  Sansa was not immediately conscious of having pulled back from her knees, exposing her breasts above the water, and once she was aware, the kneading of his fingers on her head and neck made her not care.  Sansa heard a protesting sound come from her throat when he stopped and began using the bowl to pour water over her hair to rinse the soap out. 

Stannis reached for one of the folded linens Melesa had laid out and used it to squeeze the water out of her tresses.  While she wrapped the linen around her head, he took another linen to use to protect his hands as he removed one of the cauldrons from the fire and poured the water into the tub to warm it.  He went back for the other as she returned to the more modest position of hiding her breasts but pulling herself up to her knees.  Later, she would dwell on why she had not been more upset at being this exposed to him. 

“Finish your bath and soak for as long as you wish.  I’ll send your handmaid in to help you put on a nightgown.”

“I should help in the kitchen and there is . . . “

“No,” he commanded as he reached the door.  Stannis’ scowl was stern although she saw the anxiety in his eyes.  “The maester has instructed you to rest and be observed for the next six hours, and so you shall.  In this, I shall have my way.  I will return to carry you to your room. ” 

Sansa did not know whether she did not protest because she knew it would be pointless or whether she truly enjoyed the thought of Stannis carrying her again.  What she did ponder was what the two of them would do for six hours for she was fairly certain he would insist on being the one to observe her.   Sansa told herself it had no more meaning than that of the King being protective of the woman he had agreed to take as his queen.  Then she thought of his fingers splayed against her scalp, gently kneading in a way that could be thought to be a caress . . . Sansa wondered just what was happening.  


	12. Chapter 12

Stannis

When Stannis had calmed down enough to realize that he could have he could have set back all the progress made with Sansa by forcing his way into assisting her in bathing, he was already sitting behind her with his hands in her hair.  The initial desire to be there was borne out of the need to see for himself how badly she was hurt, coupled with the knowledge that her pain may make something as simple as washing the dust out of her hair difficult.  Of course, the maid could have performed the latter assistance.  Stannis had to _do_ something; help her in some way.  Anything less would have driven him to the parapet looking for someone to reap vengeance upon.   

While Sansa’s bath was being prepared, Stannis had checked on Shireen.  He’d been told by the original messenger who arrived with news of the incident that the Queen had pushed his daughter to safety and he saw her standing, shocked but seemingly unharmed, upon arrival in the courtyard.  He needed to ensure that was entirely true.  Shireen was upset for Sansa’s sake and not her own.  Only pelted with a bit of granite dust, Brienne saw to it was being brushed out of her hair by her handmaid.  He promised her that, after Sansa’s bath, she could visit her briefly. 

It was logic that sent him to his bedchamber first when he carried her upstairs.  Stannis had not slept in that bed for many nights and there was no sense in getting the granite dust and debris on her bed.  Logic was a place he went to for solace when he was angry or burdened.  Again, it was well after the fact that he realized that, by being there, she could have interpreted his request to stay while she bathed as a command since they were not in her bedchamber.  Sansa could also have formed the opinion that he did it on purpose, although were she to consider, at the time he chose that room, he could not have known that Maester Pylos would suggest soaking and that her handmaid would suggest using the bathing barrel. 

Still, for all that could yet go wrong with his forced presence during her bath, something had decidedly gone well.  That something was washing her hair.  Despite his originally performing the action in order to be helpful, he realized it had affected them both.  Sansa had leaned into his hands and even gave way to shielding herself from his sight.  Neither did he miss her reaction to his stopping, which he had to do if he was to maintain control of himself.  Stannis did not miss how exquisite what he saw of her body was; nonetheless, he was far more affected by the sheer fact that she had let her guard down.  _Sensual_ was a word Stannis was not even aware was in his extensive vocabulary.  Before the last hour, had the word been used by another, it would have been an empty, hollow word that he would have been vaguely aware was defined as something that aroused the senses or indulged an appetite, with most associating it with lust.  How the simple act of rubbing lather into her hair could have created such equal measures of pleasure and peace in him, he was certain he would never figure out were he to think on it for days on end.  He remembered Robert once saying, “If there’s a place on a woman you want to touch or taste, she’ll let you and be glad of it if you do it right.”  It had no meaning to him until now.  _Were he to use his fingers on other places on her body as he did her head and neck, what other responses would she have?_   Not that he could idly reach for her and begin any such ministrations.  Stannis was already quite shocked at himself for doing as much as he did. 

In the time allowed for Sansa to finish her bath, he consulted Davos, who was patiently waiting in the corridor.  “Maester Pylos has said that while Queen Sansa will be sore tomorrow and several days thereafter, she has suffered no great harm,” Davos informed him of what he already knew.  “I have spoken to those on the parapet above.  A young lad tripped and sent a cart’s contents aloft.”

Stannis could see Davos’ dread of instructions to hang a mere boy.  Sansa would not thank him for it either.  He was angry, but even he knew that was not just.  One could argue the fault was with whoever left some stray item where the boy could trip over it.   There was still part of him that insisted an example must be made as a life was taken in this act. 

“Did the master carpenter have a family?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Davos answered him.  “A wife and a daughter.”

“Do you know the age of the daughter and the age of the boy?”

“No, Your Grace.  I will find that information and bring it to you.  Is there more you wish me to learn on this matter?”

“No.  Be so good as to tell the Princess that she may visit the Queen now.” 

Knocking on Sansa’s bedchamber, she was sitting upright in bed wearing a robe over her nightgown with the bedclothes pulled up to her hips.  Her wet hair had been braided and hung to the side over her shoulder.  There was a medicinal smell in the air that he assumed was the liniment Maester Pylos mentioned should be applied every two hours while the Queen was awake.  A table with a tray was pulled next to the bed along with a chair.  Someone, either Sansa or her servants, obviously expected him to use the chair because the tray contained two goblets with a small pitcher of water and lemon while another, upon inspection, held some sort of white wine.  “Melesa said that Maester Pylos recommended wine for the pain; that milk of the poppy was more than was required.”

Stannis questioned wine when her head ached; however, he trusted the young maester more than most and he certainly agreed about avoiding milk of the poppy if the pain could be tolerated or alleviated another way.  Sansa started to try to move toward the table in order to pour.  “I shall do it,” Stannis asserted, watching her settle again.  He poured her wine into the goblet and handed it to her.  He then poured water for himself and sat in the chair that had been his bed for several nights in the not so distant past and probably would be this night.    

As they both drank from their goblets, there was knock on the door and Sansa’s bid to enter brought Shireen into the room carrying a book that was almost as large as she was hugged to her chest.  She ran to the bed and jumped onto it in such an alarming manner that he was about to censure her for until he saw the broad smile it received from his queen.  _Would Sansa ever smile at me thus?_  

For half of an hour, Stannis was merely a witness to the two of them.  Their first exchanges consisted of his daughter’s gratitude for her step-mother saving her life and Sansa attempting to minimize her efforts.   Shireen settled next to Sansa on the bed, and opened the big book.  “I brought you something to read only Maester Pylos said you may not feel up to reading it yourself and suggested that I might read to you.”

Sansa put her arm around his daughter and smoothed her hair.  Watching the two of them nearly took his breath away. 

The story his daughter read was about Good Queen Alysanne’s time in the North.  Stannis chaffed a bit at hearing his young daughter read of how the queen had encouraged her husband to ban the tradition of first night in the North.  It was a barbaric tradition that needed to be banned.  To his relief, the story soon went on to tell of her being a patroness of the Night’s Watch.  He realized listening to his daughter that, one day, he would be the subject of such histories.  _Would they speak harshly of his turning The Gift over to the wildlings?  Would some child read of him and see him as a hero or villain?_   More likely the stories would talk of his beautiful queen and how much influence she exerted over him, just as Queen Alysanne had influenced King Jaehaerys I. 

Soon, another knock brought had a barely opened door and Ser Rolland announcing that Shireen’s handmaid had come to take her to her supper.  “I will see you on the morrow,” Sansa told her, kissing Shireen’s cheek. 

“The Queen may be very sore on the morrow.  I will rely on your to see to it that she does not over exert herself.” Stannis told his daughter as she crawled off of the bed. 

His instructions were greeted with grave seriousness by his princess.  “I shall see to it father.” 

Once Shireen had departed, he turned back to Sansa.  “The Princess cares for you a great deal, Your Grace.”

“As I do for her,” Sansa assured him.  “She is the sweetest and most loving of all I have ever met and yet, I do not believe there will ever be anyone she will care for half so much as she does you.” 

Stannis did not know how to respond to such a statement, although he had to admit it was pleasing to hear.  He was about to ask her whether she had been equally as devoted to Ned and caught himself before he got the words out.  Instead, he changed the subject.  “My Hand tells me it was, indeed, an accident today.  A young boy tripped while working above.  However, the master carpenter leaves a widow and a daughter.  I have asked Lord Seaworth to find out the ages of the daughter and the boy.  What say you should the boy and the carpenter’s daughter be of similar age and that he be made to marry her and work to support them in place of the father she has lost?” 

She contemplated his plan for a moment.  “The carpenter’s daughter is but nine.  A boy moving carts around would not be much older.  Small folk do not understand such marriages, nor will the boy be able to provide as her father once did, at least not for some time.  The carpenter died in service to Winterfell, so his family will be taken care of; however, I see the value of your plan in that care must be taken and that there are consequences even for accidents.  Perhaps the boy can be apprenticed to whomever replaces the master carpenter to learn the trade to better take on this responsibility in time.  If the mother and daughter object to the scheme, either now or in future, I would not want to see it forced on them.”

They discussed the matter further, as well as his reports of the meat stores from a good hunt that included several wild boar.  It seemed no time at all before there was another knock on the door announcing supper was ready to be brought in to them.  Two servants brought in trays of food, along with Sansa’s handmaid who asked that she be allowed to rub more liniment on her queen as instructed by the maester.  Stannis led the servants that had delivered their supper out of the room, returning when the handmaid vacated to find the table that once held the tray with the pitchers and goblets now held a tray with his food.  He was pleased to see that rations were strictly maintained as he observed both their platters, even in light of the improved store of meat.  No one was starving, although he noted that despite being with child even Lady Walda seemed to be losing her claim to the offensive moniker of Fat Walda.   The thought of Lady Walda made him realize her absence in the wake of all that had taken place.

“I am surprised Lady Walda has not been to see you.”  In response, Stannis was told how she has been confined to her bed as there were some complications.  She did not elaborate except to relay that she was quite sure the maester and Artos Flint were both shielding her from the news to ensure she stayed abed for if she did, both she and the babe should be well.  Stannis started to think on the Boltons and knew he needed a distraction to keep from a fit of temper that he would then have to explain to her. 

He asked her if she was pleased with the progress being made on the rebuilding of Winterfell.  Neither wanted to admit that it was a good thing that Roose Bolton left behind so much material to work with and that the siege had left so much of it untouched.  Sansa spoke with enthusiasm when talking about how pleased she was with the progress and grateful to his men for the work they were doing. 

Eventually, Stannis brought up a suggestion Davos had made about seeking trade with the wildlings at The Gift and to foster a stronger alliance as well as provide much needed supplies for both.  “I have long meant to commend you on your choice for Lord Hand.  Few would have the foresight to name one of his birth and, before I met him, I might have been one to find fault with such a choice.  Since I have known him, I have often envied you such an advisor.”

“As queen, you may avail yourself of his counsel as oft as you wish.”  Stannis was aware that his Hand had coaxed much from her through patient listening and well-chosen questions the first fortnight after they arrived at Winterfell.  Much of what Stannis knew of her history was what she had told Davos, and initially, he had doubted some of what he heard.  There was a time when he fervently doubted Tyrion Lannister did not bed his child bride.  Later, when faced with a similar situation with the same bride, he could more easily believe Tyrion resisted in hopes of courting her into his bed rather than taking her by right. 

 “The last time I wished for someone I trusted to counsel me, it was about our marriage.  One could hardly have expected Lord Seaworth to have been impartial.” 

Stannis did not know what to make of her willingness to talk so of having had to make that particular decision.  He couldn’t help himself from pressing a bit.  “Do you regret the decision you made?”  He wished it unsaid the moment it came out for he sounded one seeking flattery.  “You need not answer . . . “

“I do not regret it,” Sansa replied.  She did not look him in the eye when he inspected her face for sincerity.  “You have been kind, Your Grace.  And we both know you have shown great patience.”  There was a moment of silence and then she turned a slight shade of pink.  “The Princess asked me several days ago why your beard does not make my face red as Artos Flint’s does Lady Walda’s.” 

“Your answer?” 

Now, she turned to meet his eyes although her expression was unreadable.  “I told her she may yet see my face show signs of your beard.” 

Stannis neither knew what to say nor think.  He did see that her wine goblet was empty and had been set aside on the tray.  In her current state of injury, she would hardly be issuing an invitation.  For lack of any other contribution, he asked whether her answer satisfied Shireen.  A faint smile played on Sansa’s lips.  “She said I should ask you to shave your beard; that you looked more handsome without it and that your doing so would save me from the embarrassment of others knowing what we had been about.”

He scoffed at that.  “The Princess would have you think the mere act of shaving a beard can perform a miracle.”

With that, she returned her gaze to the platter of barely touched food before her. “You are not unhandsome.  You merely hide it well with the scowling.” 

 _Was this flirting or was she stating what she thought in response to Shireen’s thoughts?_ Stannis concentrated on his food in an effort to take time to think about the tone of this conversation.  He had almost finished his meal when he found himself blurting out, “I would know what you would have me make of this conversation, for it could do us both harm for me to read too much or too little into it.”

If anything, the question seemed to relieve her.  “You will undoubtedly believe me dim witted when I confess that I am not entirely certain of what I am trying to convey.  I am as much at a loss as you for why I ventured to speak as I have.  I believe what I am trying to say is that your patience is appreciated, and that I see it as being fruitful.  Neither of us wants a rancorous marriage and we both want children.”  Sansa paused in what he could only assume was an effort to collect her thoughts.  “You have kept to your word that this is my domain.  You have not wavered in that in any way and I am appreciative.  It means more than you could know.  There will come a time . . . soon . . . and yet, I will not know what to do.”   

Stannis sat back in his chair.  “You need only tell me.” 

She actually rolled her eyes at him.  “Do you have any idea how difficult that is for a lady in the best of circumstances?  What words do I use?  I am no Cercei and she once said she could easier seduce your horse than you.  I did not fully appreciate her insight until I considered the prospect of how I would go about such a thing.”

“Even my horse would find such a prospect repugnant,” he mocked.  “There are not enough words available to her nor actions possible to give Cercei success were she to have ever ventured such with me.  You, on the other hand . . .  I fear the smallest thing is all that would be needed.”

“Do you hear what you said, Stannis?” 

What he heard was her call him by name for the first time.  What else she was trying to point out to him was lost. 

“You said that you _fear_ the smallest thing is all that would be needed.  Just as you were not sure of what to think about this conversation, you would not be sure of my intent unless I was completely overt.  I do not know that I can be . . . overt.  There must be . . . something . . . that will satisfy us both.” 

Nothing immediately came to mind.  Sansa was quite right.  She was no Cercei who would suggestively throw herself at any man that served a purpose.  Nor was she a Melisandre who would expose herself and tell a man what he wanted most to hear.  “Finish your supper.  We will come to some understanding . . . do you wish more wine?” 

“I believe it has made my head ache worse.  Might I have some of your water and lemon?” 

Rising, Stannis went to the side table where the pitchers had been moved and poured water from the pitcher into her goblet and handed it to her, receiving her thanks with a nod of acknowledgement, before taking his seat.  There was progress in knowing they could have such a discourse and not feel the need to run from the room.  Of course, neither of them really had that luxury either.  They finished their meal in silence and it was not long before her handmaid returned to rub in more liniment, marking that four hours had passed since she was initially examined by Maester Pylos.  He took the time to visit the garderobe, stopping in his bedchamber to wash up.  The cold water he splashed on his face was more than welcome.  In his looking glass, he saw water dripping off the beard that he had allowed to grow longer than usual due to the cold.  _Would there come a time when it would be of concern . . . the possibility of his beard scratching her porcelain skin?_  

Upon returning to her room, he was alarmed to find her asleep.  The trays were gone and she was still sitting up with her head moved to the side.  “Sansa!”

To his relief, her eyes opened immediately.  “You must stay awake for at least another hour and one half.  Then we may both sleep.” 

Sansa motioned to the book of histories Shireen left behind.  “I strongly suggest you find something very diverting to read to me.” 

When the six hours was over, the handmaid returned once again and Stannis retired to his apartment to change remove his clothes, save his undertunic, and don a robe.  Sansa was no longer sitting up when he returned and had moved over to make room for him in the bed.  “I can sleep in the chair if you will be more comfortable.” 

“That is not necessary,” she replied, and then yawned, pulling the bedclothes over her mouth briefly as she did so. 

Stannis remembered that this very morning he had decreed that if she curled herself up against him and used him for a cushion, he would have her wake to find herself there.  Pain would wake her this night were she to move towards him; he was sure of it.  Indeed, it would be a way of knowing her pain was gone to wake and find her having sought his warm in the night.  He stoked the fire and blew out the candles before he slipped into the bed next to her and drew the bedclothes up to his chest. 

“Kiss me,” he whispered.  “When you are ready, all you need do is kiss me . . . will that suffice?” 

“Any kiss?  On the cheek or forehead?” she murmured back to him in the faint firelight.

He felt a bit deflated that she seemed to find it difficult to think of kissing him other than the light kiss one might put on either of the locations mentioned.  If that was all she could muster, he wanted to tell her, then it would be a good indicator that she was not ready for what would follow.    “Any kiss.”

“It will suffice.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as Tommyginger conceived of an accident to help me get Stannis to the point of sitting behind that bathing barrel in the last chapter, she helped me think of things our awkward couple could possibly talk about in those six hours. I probably should have used MORE of her suggestions than I did, but if it weren't for the reading of histories (because Sansa loves them and so does Shireen), I might have been forced to write this as Stannis having merely sent people back and forth to report to him out of my own ineptness. Thanks Tommy!


	13. Chapter 13

Sansa

She did not know why she allowed him to stay for that bath, although she would be lying if she were to say that she wished him away.  Not even being named Queen of Love and Beauty by Ser Loras Tyrell had given her the sensations that the simple touch of Stannis’ hands in her hair and on her head had created.  There had also been something that ran through and pitted a little lower than her belly when he began to walk toward her in the bathing barrel.  The intensity of his gaze that she was sure was merely concern was so forceful it seemed to bore into her.  The truth was that she could not say she wanted to bed him; that was still something she viewed with fear despite knowing that ladies, such as her own lady mother, did not find it distasteful.  Sansa had been honest when she said Stannis’ efforts at making her feel she had a choice were fruitful.  Fear was a vast improvement from where she was only a moon-cycle ago, which was total revulsion. 

While she feared his manhood rutting in and out of her body, she no longer feared his touch.  Indeed, that she now desired.  Maester Pylos wanted her to spend time in the hot springs every day to help with the soreness left from her accident.  Each night before they went to sleep lying next to each other, Sansa wanted to ask Stannis if he could be the one to take her to the hot springs on the morrow.  At night when she closed her eyes, she saw the two of them with their heads above the water, shoulders bare, in the springs with him washing her hair again.  Of course, Sansa knew such an invitation was impossible for many reasons.  She could, and did, go to the hot springs with Brienne as a lookout.  Often, several of the women at Winterfell, including the Princess, bathed at the same time for the safety of numbers.  However, the King could not be allowed to go without his guards and she would never bathe in sight of them.  There was also the problem of what the King would read into the invitation itself.  Despite their agreement that a kiss would be the sign that she was ready to do her duty, she imagined he could well perceive an invitation for the two of them to be naked together, partially or fully, as another form of invitation.  Worse, Stannis could view such a request as her toying with him. 

It was well over a fortnight before she no longer felt any pain and was able to walk and reach upwards as before the accident.  Sansa eased back into her duties and was ever grateful for those who had performed her tasks while she was unable.  Consulting volumes of medical papers left by Maester Luwin, Maester Pylos recommended she begin walking after the first sennight, increasing the length each day.  She took these walks after the morning Small Council meeting, accompanied by Lady Brienne.  Afterward, she visited an enormously bored Lady Walda who would not mind being made to stay abed if someone were there to entertainment her during her confinement.  Sansa was confused as to why Walda could sit up in bed, but not sit on a chair.  In this, she felt the Maester was erring on the side of caution, which she had to admit was preferable if one was not sure.  

Each night, Stannis came to her bedchamber.   It was no longer a question of whether he was going to sleep in her bed . . . in what was now _their_ bed.  The ritual became his stoking the fire, snuffing the candles, and then lying beside her.  Each night, he would remain in his robe and lay on his back with her on her side where they would begin a conversation.  There were subjects covered as a matter of habit, such as any particular issues from the Small Council meeting, Shireen and her day, their mutual assessment of any special issues regarding Winterfell, and his newly added inquiries regarding her recovery.  Sansa was always the first to fall asleep.  If Stannis minded when their conversation ended thus, he never mentioned it. 

On this night, she remarked that she believed she no longer felt any great pain despite there being a few yellowing bruises still evident on her shoulders.  There was just enough light from the fire in the hearth for her to observe a slight smirk on his face.  “Yes, I am quite certain your agility is back to where it was.” 

It did not seem like Stannis to make such an observation, and the smirk that accompanied it, she found rather odd when coupled with such a simple statement.  Sansa began to drift off to sleep before she could dwell on it any longer. 

The sound of someone crying out awoke Sansa and she tried to sit up, but there was something around her back preventing it.  “It’s Lady Walda,” Stannis muttered drowsily.  “Maester Pylos says she may either be delivering early or her time was miscalculated.”

The fire was out, but she did not need its light to realize where she was.  Sansa was on his side of the bed with her head lying on his chest, cradled against him with one limb thrown over his.  Stannis’ arm was about her with his hand on her hip.  He did not seem astonished to find her there, and was already returning to sleep.  Waiting until his breathing was deep and steady, Sansa started to pull away, embarrassed that she awoke to find herself using Stannis as a rather large pillow.   His arm tightened around her, although not to the point where she could feel he truly meant to stop her if she protested.  “You will return as soon as you fall asleep.”  He sounded more awake now. 

“I have done this before?” Sansa inquired, keeping her voice low and not moving from his side. 

“Yes,” was the only answer she was given. 

She stretched against him.  Walda had told her over a moon-cycle before that she thought she was farther along than she had originally anticipated.  “I should go to her.”

“You will exhaust yourself,” he reasoned. “Artos and servants attend her now.   You will be of more service to her later.”

Sansa settled back and realized she was quite comfortable nestled against him.  Including the additional warmth, his body was firm and sinewy.  Of course she already knew he was broad shouldered, yet it seemed even more so with her head cushioned there.  Sansa liked the smell of him.  There were both men and women who did not bathe nearly as often as they should and could be quite malodorous before they consented to clean either themselves or their garments.   Few had hot springs in which to bathe.  Stannis’ scent was earthy, yet clean.  On the morrow, after Walda’s babe was born, she would examine what this meant . . . was it more than seeking warmth that drew her to his side in the night?

She was drifting back to sleep when Walda let out another loud whimper that reached their bedchamber.  They both roused; Sansa sitting fully upright and Stannis removing his arm and placing it behind his head.  “I must attend her.  And despite your moving Shireen to a bedchamber as far from Walda and Artos as possible, the distance may not shield her from hearing Walda’s response to birth pangs.  I should be there if she comes to inquire.”

Stannis got up from the bed and, in the darkness, seemed to be able to see well enough to find a candle and take t to the door.  Opening it, one of his guards took the candle from him and returned with it lit.  He then used it to light two other candles before setting it down on the dressing table.  “Is this enough to dress by?”

“Yes.”  Sansa rolled out of bed.  The gown laid out on wooden stand that stood ready should she ever need to dress herself quickly was removed.  It was chosen as an easy gown for her to don on her own although it appeared as though Stannis stood ready to assist her should she require.  She noted that he tried not to watch her dress, concentrating instead on the items on her dressing table.  There was something endearing about the gesture despite not knowing if it was done to save him embarrassment or her.  She suspected the latter as her previously snuggling up to his person did not alarm him.       

Tying the last of the stays at the front of the gown, Sansa donned a pair of slippers and took one of the candles from a table.  “I do hope you will be able to return to sleep.”

Stannis seemed to be studying her and she waited for whatever he wished to say to form.  “You will be . . . will it not be difficult for you to assist in seeing to the birth of a Bolton?”

“It will,” she admitted.  She had come to think of Walda apart from the Freys and Boltons after reminding herself that she was once treated poorly because of her name.  The circumstances had been vastly different.  She had remained proud of her name and had wished to return to her home and family.  Walda never spoke of the Freys, nor seemed to miss anyone in The Twins.  It could be that she feared mention it, yet Sansa did not think that was as it was.  Despite that, this child could grow to be a daily reminder of Roose Bolton or even Ramsay.  She would deal with that if she found she had to.  “We do what me must,” Sansa finished, “not what we choose.” 

The approval that registered in his eyes, noticeable even in the faint candlelight, gave her a rush of sensation similar to the one she remembered feeling the first time he touched her skin when she bathed.  Sansa felt a furious blush creep into her cheeks and turned away.  “I bid you good day, Your Grace.” 

Alys Rivers’ entry into the world was not an easy one.  Hodor’s sister, Ella, performed most of the tasks while Sansa, who had never attended a birth much less assisted, did as the older servant bid.  For one prone to being rather vocal, Walda did her best to stifle her pains, keeping them more as varying degrees of whimpering than outright cries until the last.  Shireen had wanted to attend as well, an equal mix of concern for Walda and curiosity of the process.  Sansa sent her to ask for her father’s permission, and later found her dutifully obeying him and sitting outside the door to await the birth rather than inside to witness it.  Stannis’ concession was that she need not attend lessons that day so she may be nearby to be one of the first to see the newest occupant of Winterfell.   

Sansa was at first only able to hold the babe for a moment before giving her to her mother after she was swaddled.  Later, that evening after Walda fell asleep from exhaustion from both the birth and greeting those who visited from within the household, Sansa held the tiny infant, rocking her gently in her arms and softly singing The Mother’s Song.  Even now, this babe favored Walda and there was great relief in that.    _I saved you from a monster, yet I may also do a monstrous thing by sending you away to a life of serving the dead._   At this moment, Sansa doubted she would be able to see that through considering how singularly innocent and precious the little bundle she held was.    

‘You need rest, Your Grace,” Artos Flint took the babe from her, gingerly holding the child he would be father to, while not allowed to give his name.  “We thank you for all you have done this day.” 

As she made her way to her bedchamber to change before going to look for her first meal of the day, fatigued and famished.  Melesa attended her and she supped with Shireen, who excitedly talked about this being the first baby she had been around that she could remember.  “I do so hope I am not as my mother and can have more than one child someday,” Shireen remarked, still greatly excited by the day’s event.  “I know Lady Walda was in pain, yet she looked so happy afterward.”

Sansa did not like to think on Shireen’s future, wishing she could keep her just as she was now.  At best, Stannis would marry her to a house he wished to reward for their loyalty and who was not so powerful that they dared offend him by treating Shireen as less than the most highly valued member of their house.  The war and uncertain future made it more likely that Shireen would marry for an alliance and suffer living in a house that had once been an enemy to the father she cherished.  At least Sansa knew Stannis would seek to avoid such an option rather than run to it as others did to use their daughters to their political advantage. 

She went to her bed earlier than usual, and while she should be bone weary, the meal had invigorated her and she found she could not sleep.  Sansa lay there deep in thought.  Stannis had accomplished his goal.  She did trust him.  He had ample opportunity to force himself on her and to hurt her, and had shown her nothing but patience and concern.  There was also this newfound knowledge that her body sought his in the night.  If she were waiting for a time when she truly desired him . . . _no, that was not fair; she did desire his touch, just not that which Ramsay had ruined for her_ . . . if she were waiting for a time when she felt a desire for him to bed her, and he allowed her to wait, there would be no possibility of a babe of her own to hold and nurture.  Yes, she did think of Shireen as her own; however, Shireen did not call her mother and she had not been able to cradle her in her arms and sing her to sleep. 

Stannis arrived at his usual hour.  “The babe is well?” he asked, which amused her because she knew he had received several reports throughout the day. 

“She is well as is her mother.” 

He performed his usual ritual and slipped in bed beside her.  “I expected you would be asleep.  You have had quite a long day.”

Rather than stay her ground of lying on her side of the bed, Sansa moved closer to him and repositioned herself against his side as she had been when she awoke in the early hours of the morning.  She did not lay her head on his shoulder; instead, their eyes met and nothing was said while he waited to see what was to come.  Sansa was shaking slightly and she knew he was aware of it for Stannis’ body stiffened in alert.  With no preamble or real thought of what to do afterward, Sansa leaned forward and laid a gentle kiss on his lips. 


	14. Chapter 14

Stannis

Stannis was not, by nature, a man who considered himself able to be gentle or to have the capacity for tenderness. With Melisandre, it had been passion that burned as hot as one of her flames, only the flame was only a momentary burst of searing heat that quickly turned cold once the objective had been satisfied. They both had an agenda and used each other to achieve it. With Selyse, it had been about getting it over with for both of them and hoping this one produced the heir that would end all further attempts. For Sansa, the wife that found her way into his arms most mornings and slept peacefully there, he wanted far more. Stannis just had little idea how to achieve it. He had put all of his strategic planning into getting to his moment, not what he would actually do in the moment.

His first reaction was instinctual . . . to tighten his hold on Sansa and pull her back into the kiss she had started. Once he did so, Stannis realized she was shaking even more than he originally thought. He remembered telling her once to be certain she wanted the answer to any question she asked . . . Stannis followed his own advice and did not ask her if she was certain this was what she wanted. He might not be a gentle man, none the less, he knew he needed to make every effort to be just that.

Stannis started to shift her on to her back, but thought better of it. It was probably best that she be the one looming over him to start. Instead, he cradled her head with the hand and took on the role of aggressor in kissing her. Stannis wanted desperately for her to open her mouth to him and tried to be patient by kissing around her mouth and along her cheek, jaw, and forehead. He made every effort to be careful not to have his beard rub too harshly on her face. It was then that he remembered what had calmed her before and splayed his fingers into her hair and began stroking motions similar to when he had washed her hair. This provided the desired result; she sighed and took in a breath due to his efforts. Stannis took advantage of the opportunity when his lips returned to hers. Sansa’s first reaction to his tongue on her lips was to gasp, yet she did not pull away. Little, barely audible moans escaped her and while he knew not to be too forceful, restraint was made even more difficult when her tongue joined his.

There came a point where he had to move Sansa onto her back or this would never progress forward.   Rather than loom over her when he did, he leaned away from her and untied his robe. It was too awkward to shrug out of it without standing, so he briefly did so and returned to the bed in only his undertunic. Stannis moved closer to her and nuzzled her ear, then kissed his way across her check and back to her mouth. This time, she opened it for him immediately. He’d never spent so much time merely kissing a woman. Kissing Selyse was more an act of accidentally bumping into her face with his mouth. With Melisandre, it had been a quick precursor to what was their primary intent.  

Stannis had deliberately positioned himself so that she was not immediately aware of his physical desire for her. That was one thing he did think about in advance. Lying on his side with his lower half away from her was becoming more awkward. Should she become aware of it and begin shaking again, Stannis knew he would stop. He eased himself over until he was fully alongside her and was pleased when Sansa moved to her side to face him and wrapped an arm around his neck. Putting an arm around her waist, he pulled them closer together and his manhood pressed against her. Sansa froze for a moment and Stannis tried to distract her with another kiss. It seemed to be effective and she relaxed against him.

The hand on her side traveled up slowly until his thumb stroked the underside of her breast, covered with the thin fabric of her nightgown. This didn’t seem to register any response, positive or otherwise. Cupping her breast was another matter. The moan that elicited was far louder than any so far and hearing it caused him to buck towards her.

Stannis coaxed her to lie on her back again while continuing to stroke and kiss wherever his hands and lips happened to be. The movement brought her nightgown up to her thighs, but not enough. He returned his attentions to her mouth and kissed her deeply, wanting to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t pay as much attention to his lifting her gown higher. It didn’t work. Sansa noticed and pulled away, looking down at where her nightgown was now pooled just above her hips.

“You are in control, Sansa,” his voice a low growl. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

It was only a matter of a few seconds at most, but it seemed like an eternity before she faced him again. “You will need to tell me what to do. This was . . . we did not . . . he was behind me . . .“

“Don’t think on that.” Now he sounded to himself like he was begging. _So be it._ “This is entirely different.”

Kissing her once more, he put a little pressure on her legs to indicate that he wished her to spread them and positioned himself between them, propping himself up on his elbows. “Bend your knees,” he instructed in a whisper and she promptly did as he asked. Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Stannis took himself in hand and eased towards her until he found her entrance. In his mind, he kept repeating the words _Go Slow_ over and over and over again as he pushed himself inside her. He was grateful that she was wet; her not being was one of his most prevalent concerns.

Sansa’s eyes grew large and she didn’t make a sound. She was tight and her nervousness made her clench around him, which was maddeningly wonderful. Keeping to his effort to go slow, he moved in and out of her, watching her for a reaction he felt was a sign that he needed to stop. When she closed her eyes and he could tell she was relaxing a bit, he began to move inside her at a little faster pace. This had her bring her head up again and he felt her raise her hips to meet his and grind against him. Stannis wanted this type of reaction, and feared it as well. It had been a long time for him and, try as he might, he wasn’t sure how long he would last.

Allowing one elbow to hold him aloft for a time, he ran a hand along her exposed leg until it was on her calf. Stannis lifted it until it was around his thigh, giving him the ability to go deeper inside her. Sansa raised her other leg around him of her own volition. The wide-eyed look in those Tully blue eyes was his undoing. It took all he had to keep from thrusting madly within her when she would raise her hips to meet him.

He tried to control himself and not release in her too quickly, especially as she was starting to respond to him. Glutteral sounds were coming from him that was echoed by moans she was trying unsuccessfully to muffle. Despite all his efforts to the contrary, one particularly unrestrained moan from her set him over the edge and he released in a series of final, deep thrusts.

Thoroughly exasperated with himself, Stannis raised up, taking himself out of her. Sansa must have sensed it was over and lowered her legs, allowing him to roll away from her. “I am . . . I apologize, Sansa.”

She moved to her side so that she could view his face. “All is well. It was . . . it was much better than I expected. It was not at all as . . . as what I had experienced before.”

_There was that, at least!_ Stannis could not look at her. “You do not understand. Had I been able to restrain myself, had I been able to stay with you longer before releasing . . . you would have had a similar release and it would have been . . . you may have been pleased with it rather than content that it was not . . . what you had previously experienced.” He could not believe those words were coming out of him, but such was his angst over not being able to stay the course.

“It was not unpleasing,” Sansa insisted. “Truly it wasn’t. I particularly enjoyed . . . the kissing was most agreeable.”

With that, he met her eyes again. He had failed her so utterly and yet she was trying to reassure him. There was nothing he could say to that. Sansa inched closer and laid her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, consciously taking the position he found her in most mornings since they began sharing this bed. “I may as well start here if I will only end here by morning.”

Taking in the scent of her hair and leaning his head forward a little to nuzzle her hair, Stannis encircled her with his arm and accepted that it was enough for now that she wasn’t cowering in a corner. “Yes . . . you may as well.”


	15. Chapter 15

Davos

If there were a maester’s chain link for achieving proficiency in the study of Stannis Baratheon, Davos would like to believe he had earned it. As Lord or King, Stannis was not one who made serving him as an advisor an easy task. If he was angry, his King would tell him far more than he needed to hear on a subject in order to form an opinion or suggest a course of action. His King was good about hearing the opinions of others in matters of state; he wanted all the information he could gather when a course of strategy was required. Often, Davos was not happy with who those opinions came from. 

Then there were times like now when Davos knew something troubled his King and yet, the king would give him little in the way of a clue regarding what the trouble was. He was aware that often this meant he had problems of a personal nature. In King's Landing, it often meant Robert had slighted or aggravated him in some way. At Dragonstone, it meant he had words with Queen Selyse over the Princess or that the Red Bitch was spewing some of her poison in ways that made him question his good sense against her fanaticism. Davos had not seen the King so insular in his distress in a very long time.

His first thought was to observe Queen Sansa to see evidence that they were in some sort of discord. If anything, you could see a daily change in her from the well-bred, yet traumatized lady who stood ready for another round of being passed from one hostage situation to another when they first arrived to one taking on the mantle of queen and coming to terms that, perhaps, she was no longer a tool to be used as a means to an end. It certainly did not seem that his King resented her growing confidence. That would be far from the truth. Stannis consulted her in Small Council meetings and supported her. Yet, there was something that bothered him and Davos’ instincts told him it had to do with Queen Sansa.

The first thought he had, after he had settled on it regarding the Queen, was that his age and her beauty was gnawing at him. Stannis had a rather large ego when it came to his abilities as a ruler and a military commander. Davos would be the first to sing his praises in those areas, and often did when seeking alliances in his name. On the other hand, his King had taken a dim view of marrying a beautiful lady who, if she could make her way beyond the horrors of what she had been through, was by far the most fortuitous match he could have made. His objections were not of her person, but of his. He claimed he was not the man for a lady who had suffered what she had. Davos had objected that he was just the man. That he would make her feel safe and understand the slights and misuse of others upon her person. The King certain felt he had been slighted and abused by others, and the advantage to his marriage to Queen Sansa is that, for the first time, he realized that others had suffered far more and far worse at the hands of those they once trusted or, in her case, were led to believe they could trust.

There were the rumors, voiced primarily by Ser Axell, that the King was not bedding Queen Sansa. Were this true, or even true for a time, it made Davos proud of Stannis. Davos had tried to prolong the wedding for as long as possible. To Manderly and others, he insisted the King needed to wait until they were sure she was not carrying a Bolton child before marrying her. In one of the conversations where he had persuaded the Queen, when still Lady Sansa, into telling him about her life after she left Winterfell. She told him she drank moon tea that the cook, Gage, made for her every morning after she was forced to wed the Bolton Bastard. Davos' claim of time being required to ensure something he believed was not an issue was meant to try to help make her learn the King would not harm her and for his King to resign himself to being husband yet again.

That said, what Davos was witnessing could be frustration. Everyone knew, and was shocked, that Stannis went to his queen’s bedchamber every night now, leaving his own bed untouched. The room had become his private study and a place where his wardrobe was stored. The bed remained should he wish to avail himself of it. Most how knew the King would assume he would return there for the largest part of the time the Queen was with child, should that happen. Melisandre had been able to spin him about, using her body to try to manipulate him. Still, Davos saw that coupling as more about Stannis needing an occasional release and finding one willing. It might be wishful thinking, but Davos did not think there was ever a time when Stannis wanted the Red Bitch to be his wife except for a general thought that few women could be worse for him than Queen Selyse.

“Your brow is furrowed, Lord Hand,” Stannis broke into his thoughts upon entering the Small Council chamber for the morning session. At present, they were the only two in the room. “Is there something I should be aware of?”

Grabbing for a reasonable excuse for why he might be deep in thought and wives were much on his mind at the moment. “There is nothing of consequence, Your Grace. I was merely thinking of my lady and sons.”

His King began fiddling with papers on the table in front of him. “You have been away from them in my service for far too long, Lord Hand. As soon as it is possible, I will send you and a contingency of men to bring them here or to King’s Landing if that is where we shall be.”

If the floor had opened and swallowed him whole, Davos would have been less shocked. For Stannis Baratheon to acknowledge the need of family for one in his service, especially when that family already had several sons to serve as heirs, was not something he ever expected to hear. Perhaps the trouble with his King was he was realizing an affection for his new wife and found it disconcerting.

“I would be most grateful, Your Grace,” was all he could think to say. It was a genuine sentiment.

Stannis picked up one of the reports and began to leaf through it, not particularly focusing on it. “Was yours and your wife’s a warm bed, Lord Hand?”

And only a few moments ago, he had wished his King would tell him what troubled him. Davos wasn’t sure he was prepared for where this was may be leading, despite having no idea where that may be. “A majority of the time.”

He still leafed through the pages. “You are older now. You may not be able to make that bed as warm for her as you once did.”

Now he understood, or at least Davos strongly believed he might have an inkling of what troubled his King. Given the women in his life, Davos could well imagine something as simple as foreplay was completely overlooked in Stannis’ education. Sex for Stannis would be about begetting children, primarily an heir. Even with Melisandre, he couldn't credit that genuine caring and pleasure were involved. _Could it be that Stannis wanted to know how to pleasure his queen rather than merely bed her?_

Had Stannis not listened to the bawdy stories of his brother or the men in his army? Davos could well imagine his King not reacting to the stories or seeming to ignore them, but not hearing them or processing them was not like him. Stannis once told him that everything that was said or done by a person told him something about them. The only thing that made his not taking such information to heart, if he wanted it, was lack of trust in the bearer.

Davos prayed to the gods he really did not believe in that he was doing the right thing and then spoke, making every attempt to make his voice sound carefree. “When we first wed, I was very young and too unskilled to last long. The only way it was ever any good for my lady was if I managed to recover quickly and have another go. To this day, I do not know if she asked her elder brother for advice or complained to him. Whatever it was, he took me on a . . . “ Davos started to say raid, and remembered this was a man who believed in justice above all else and his good brother was still alive to lose fingers or his life for his crimes, “on his boat. Somewhere in the middle of the voyage, he told a rather ribald story. Of course, it is often the way older men relay information, good and bad, to younger men. However, he made sure to tell me the moral of his story.”

“And the moral?”

He would not have finished the tale had Stannis not asked him. He took in a breath, not frightened, yet not eager should the King chastise him for what he was about to say. “My good brother told me to never put my cock where my fingers or mouth had not made ready. The first time I took the advice to heart, I learned I needed less time when one or the other did some of the work in advance.” Davos could not help adding, “Despite what you offered us, Marya was quite upset to see me with less digits.”

“Fewer,” was his King’s only reply, although it was accompanied by his studious scowl as he appeared to concentrate on the report he held. Davos could have believed he was, indeed, reading the report if he had put his spectacles on.

If he had guessed Stannis’ concern, he could only hope the information he provided was of some genuine assistance. However, Davos was more than ready for this exchange with his King to be over. For the first time ever, he was sincerely glad to see Ser Axell Florent walk into a room.


	16. Chapter 16

Stannis

Sitting at the table in his bedchamber, Stannis stared at the door that would take him to Sansa.  He needed to resolve this and resolve it soon.  It was affecting his concentration on important matters, not that his queen was not an important matter.  However, obsessing, for he knew he was obsessing, over not being able to bring Sansa to release was something Robert would have been more likely to have allowed overtaking his thoughts.  Stannis had spent a good deal of time on the strategy to make her trust him such that they could do their duty.  It did not occurred to him that doing their duty would create a problem.  Stannis had never considered whether the woman he was with was being pleasured before.  He assumed he would not have considered it ever were it not for the number of times he heard Lady Walda’s moans and squeals when he would make his way down the corridor at night.  As much as the volume of her noises annoyed him, it put the thought in his head about what it meant. It planted the seed of a desire to ensure his queen had as much pleasure as a lady she had fought so hard to see had a decent life.

Logic told him there were two possible problems.  The one of which he was least sure of was whether Sansa could ever lie in their bed and not allow her memories of the abuse she suffered keep her from doing more than enduring doing her duty and being grateful when it wasn’t horrible.  Stannis had seen rape after battle and executed soldiers for debasing the reputation of his army thus.  That had been bloodlust rape and some argued it was the right of the victor to debase the women of the vanquished.  He did not hold to this and found it barbaric.  Stannis imagined the horror of rape by one who daily enjoyed cruelty and inflicting punishment would be magnified tenfold or more.  Just thinking about it made his blood boil and wish Sansa had left Ramsay for him to kill.  Had he had that opportunity and knew what he knew now, or at least strongly suspected, Stannis would have had him burned slowly over a matter of days . . . torture for torture was just. 

If Sansa could never move beyond what she had endured, he had no choice but to accept it.  Yet, he had to try.  She had responded favorably . . . quite eagerly . . . to being kissed.  Stannis couldn’t help feeling a sense of victory when he remembered how eagerly over the past three nights.  _At least I am doing one thing correctly._    

What he knew was without a doubt a problem was his current inability to last long enough to see her to release.  Perhaps it was age or perhaps due to his lack of practice and would improve.  Davos would be one to care about his lady’s pleasure and yet, he seemed confident that his age and lack of practice would not be a problem when they were reunited.  What had been Davos' good brother’s advice?  _Never put your cock where you fingers or mouth had not made ready._   Stannis contemplated what one was supposed to do with one’s mouth in that region.  Fortunately, the advice was fingers _or_ mouth and one’s digits make sense as one elongated appendage emulating another. 

Davos also said something else of interest about older men relaying information to younger ones using ribald stories.  _Was it even remotely possible that Robert’s bawdy stories were meant to pass information to his younger brothers rather than just bragging about all the women he possessed?_    He heard all of the stories Robert told in his presence.  He had dismissed them, but paid attention all the same.  One in particular dealt with concentrating on where a woman grinds into a man.  He only recalled it now, remembering that Sansa seemed to be grinding against him at one point the night before.  It was something Selyse had never done and if Melisandre had, he had been far too engaged in his own pleasure to take note of it. 

When he had enough ruminating on the issue, Stannis decided it was time to go through.  Sansa was waiting for him.  “Good evening, Your Grace.”  He found it interesting that she start the evening by referring to him by his title and by the end of any conversation, she would often call him by his given name.    

Instead of stoking the fire first, as had become his habit, Stannis took his robe off and laid it neatly across the back of a chair and then sat sideways on the bed so that he faced her.  The change in routine seemed to startle her if her eyes going wide were any indiction.  “I realize trust takes time, and I would ask you to trust me again, Sansa.  I want to change what we do tonight but a little in aid of trying to make this more pleasing for you.”  Stannis never liked his tone when he talked to her; he tried so hard to gentle it and yet it always had the same harsh quality that served him well when ordering men. 

Fear was evident in her eyes and he could see her body stiffened at his suggestion.  “What we have done the past few nights . . . all is well, Your Grace.  Truly it is!” 

The desperation in her voice was unmistakable.  “As you wish, Your Grace.  This is your domain.”  He began to move off the bed to snuff the candles when he felt her small, warm hand on his arm. 

“Why does it matter to you?”

It was a very good question; one he had asked himself many times in the past few days.   Their eyes locked as he searched for a way to explain it to her properly, and not embarrass either of them in the process.  It took a moment and she did not turn away from him while he gathered his thoughts. 

“You will find my Lord Hand misses very little, although I am never certain he tells me all he knows.  I do trust he tells me what I must know and, sometime, what he would have me know for some purpose.  An example of the latter was telling me about Winterfell’s cook holding back on the rations of grain to mill for flour to make you a lemoncake for your nameday.  Your love of lemoncakes is so well known that even I am aware, although I cannot remember where I learned of it.  The story Davos told me is that you went to the cook and, instead, asked him to save what he had set-aside for the Princess’ nameday.  Is it true?”

“Yes.”

Stannis was satisfied he had the right of the story.  “Were you aware the Princess has never had a lemoncake?”

The furrowing of Sansa’s brow was amusing, as was her accusatory tone.  “I am well aware that all lemons at Dragonstone were reserved for your water.”

Now was not the time to address that such things were not items he bothered with and it would have been Selyse’s doing. Selyse often used his wants as an excuse when the truth of the matter in this case was far more likely that Selyse hated lemons and would not have thought to make something for Shireen. 

“You are sacrificing having the lemoncake you are very fond of so that you could gift Shireen with experiencing something you believe she would delight in, and possibly share with you later when the rationing of winter is no longer required.” 

When she made no comment, he could only assume understanding his motive, if indeed she did, did not mean she acceded to it.  He wanted to snuff the candles and go to sleep, where he could chide himself for even bothering with such things yet the searching gaze of those blue eyes kept him rooted to where he sat. 

“What would you change of what we do?”

Stannis took in a deep breath and let it out.  “I would ask that you lie with me without your nightgown and that you make no effort to restrain yourself in any way.  That said, you have only to tell me to stop should something displease you. I will only I ask that you allow it long enough to ensure it is truly displeasing.  Can you do this?”

Sansa lowered her gaze to her lap and gave his words serious reflection.  Stannis started to tell her if she was satisfied with their coupling then he was too, when she slid off the bed to the other side and lifted her nightgown over her head, folding it and laying it on a nearby table.  The sight of her porcelain skin and slender body hardened him as nothing else ever had, not even Melisandre’s body had been this exquisite.  Afraid his ravenous stare would cause her to change her mind, he made to snuff out the candles as she returned to the bed and covered herself with the bedclothes.  Stannis leaned forward and pulled his undertunic over his head, draping it over the chair back with his robe. 

Getting back into their bed, Stannis reached for her and pulled her into his arms.  Once again, she was shaking as she had the first night he bedded her, yet it was she who sought his mouth.  The feel of her skin against his ignited a passion that made him want to fuse himself to her.   He had asked her to not restrain herself and he wasn’t sure he would be able to do so either.  His military mind told him to start with proven tactics . . . kiss her and stroke her back.  Only this time, his kiss was raw and hungry, devouring.  Rather than object, Sansa danced this dance with him.   His queen had an aptitude for kissing and a taste for it as well.  He hoped he could give her a true taste for something else this night. 


	17. Chapter 17

Sansa

When Stannis said he wanted to change what they had been doing the past few nights, Sansa was terrified he would ask her to lie on her stomach and that he intended to approach her from behind.  She was fairly certain that if she could have formed the words to tell him how Ramsay had rammed himself into her in ways that caused her indescribable pain or the other things he did that caused her such distress and mortification, Stannis would leave well enough alone.  What she did not understand was his concern for her in this matter.  He was putting his seed in her, which both wished would result in children.  That he felt pleasure in this and wanted her to have a share in it, Sansa appreciated while sincerely doubting it was possible.  She did get pleasure from his kisses; that she felt thus much was more than she had anticipated.  Yet, she had some inkling to that which Stannis was referring.  There were times when her body responded to his being inside her and, to her embarrassment, thrust towards him to rub against him.  There was a sensation when she did that.  It caused an ache within, a tension, although neither a painful ache nor an unwelcomed tension. 

That was why, when Stannis told her he knew she meant to give Shireen the lemoncake Gage intended for her, she assumed he was trying to tell her that the release he had when spilling his seed was something he wanted to share with her.  And if so, was that tension she would begin to feel a part of it?  Stannis had also asked her to be unrestrained, which was asking for a great deal more than disrobing.  Sansa agreed to take off her nightgown and to try to do as he asked not because he was her king or because he was her husband.  She agreed because the man who told her the choice was hers and who was ready to accept an answer of no had asked rather than commanded. 

Kissing her husband reminded her of the dreams she had as a young girl before she left Winterfell.  No, he was not the fair-haired prince in those dreams, far from it.  Yet, she dreamed of being kissed until she was out of breath and left dazed by it.  Her king . . . her husband . . . certainly left her dazed despite the fact that they were not the chaste kisses she had envisioned in those childish dreams.   Besides the time spent kissing her mouth, Stannis had kissed her cheeks, her ears, her neck, and the night before, he had put his lips on the swell of her breast.  Tonight, his lips were more insistent and traveled farther down her body.  Sansa nearly came out of her skin when he took her breast in his mouth.  Ramsay would grab them as he had his way with her, squeezing until she screamed and pinching until purple bruises formed that took weeks to go away. 

Stannis must have felt her body stiffen.  He stopped lathing her breast and rose up until their eyes met.  “Do not let me do anything that displeases you or reminds you,” he insisted.  “Stop me.”

She hadn’t realized how labored her breathing was until she tried to speak to him.  “It was not the same.  It was a reminder . . . it was not the same.”   Even in the dim light, Sansa could see his apprehension etched in his dark eyes.   She cradled his bearded cheek with her hand and pulled him down to kiss her again.  There would always be reminders, or at least there would be for a very long time.  When his mouth left hers, she whispered, “Try again please.”

Stannis kissed along the column of her throat and along a shoulder blade until he reached her breasts again, nuzzling and gently suckling them.  Her body trust forward as his tongue flicked the hard pebble at the end of her nipple.  Sansa responded more and more to his ministrations, letting an occasional moan escape as her body writhed in response. 

His hands moved lower along her body until he cupped her mound.  Stannis began a constant kneading pressure and she heard him murmur what she thought was encouragement when she started rubbing against his hand.  If he did say anything intelligible, she couldn’t concentrate enough to know what it was.  This was the same tension she had felt the night before.  The friction from the heel of his palm against a place she realized was extremely sensitive caused the tension to continue to grow, as did her response to it.    

“Trust me,” he said thickly and she felt one of his digits enter her.  Sansa’s eyes opened wide and her back arched upwards.  The tension in her body increased as his finger moved around in her, in and out.  Sansa wasn’t sure if this was entirely appropriate, and at the moment, she really didn’t care.  His dark eyes watched her intently and she wanted to tell him she was well, except her breathing was too labored and words would not form properly. 

When Stannis added a second finger, now both stretching and pumping in and out, her body began thrashing upwards as she pressed harder into the heel of his palm, moving against it.  Her leg on the side opposite him bent at the knee and she moved it sideways, spreading her legs in invitation to him.  Stannis must have understood it for what it was and pulled his fingers from her, then positioned himself between her thighs. 

At his first thrust, Sansa wrapped her legs around him, rising up to meet him.  Stannis touched her forehead with his as he made his first grunting sound.  The intensity of feeling continued to increase within her and she wanted him to go faster.  “Please Stannis,” she begged, surprise at her throaty tone.  He seemed to either understand or need to quicken the pace himself for he did so without her saying any more. 

With only a few thrusts me, Sansa cried out, feeling her whole body tighten and then, for the first time, she understood what was meant by having a release.  She was convinced she could see the stars in the night sky despite her eyes were closed and her being indoors.  After several more thrusts inside her, each punctuated with a husky growl, Stannis let out a loud groan and collapsed against her as if boneless.  He stayed there only a moment before she realized she still had her legs around him and uncoiled them from his hips.  Rolling off of her, they laid side by side, both trying to steady their breathing.  She wanted to tell him that this was in no way a reminder of anything that had gone on before, but she couldn’t.  Perhaps one day she could tell him; perhaps he already knew. 

Stannis stood and made his way in the firelight to the wash stand.  Pouring a little water into the basin, he wet a linen and she saw him wash his hands with it.  He wet the cloth again and brought it to the bed, gently and wordlessly wiping between her legs.  She thought he was wiping himself as he returned to the stand, but his back was to her and she could not be certain.  Afterward, he slipped back into bed and moved over until he was beside her, raising an arm up so that she could curl up against him.  His arms slide around her back and Sansa laid as she had for many nights now with head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, his head resting on hers.    

They quietly lay there in each other’s arms, and she about to drift off to sleep when Stannis interrupted the silence, “The decision is yours, Sansa.  Do we do our duty as we have the previous few nights, or would you prefer to do our duty as we have this night?”

If she were not so tired and ready to drift off to sleep, she would have tried to see his face to learn what a self-satisfied scowl looked like for she was quite sure that would be what she would find there despite the lack of intonation to go with it.  Then again, perhaps he earnestly needed reassuring that all the patience and effort he went to was not in vain.  “You were quite right, Stannis,” she replied, snuggling so close, she needed to cross a limb over his.  “You did show me this night that we could share this duty, and as you pointed out earlier, I was taught to be courteous and to share.” 

Sansa was quite sure that sound that resembled a laugh was the start of a dream or her imagination for King Stannis, First of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm did _not_ laugh. 


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, but I have to wrap this up or not touch it for weeks or even months . . . so I'm opting for an epilogue. To those who, in comments, say they looked forward to Stannis learning how to do something in particular. Know that it would take time for both of them . . . but I'm sure they would get there:) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this story, and as always . . . a particular THANK YOU to those who commented and kept me going. Additional BIG THANKS to Tommyginger who listened and brainstormed with me, keeping me from straying too far in the wrong direction when she could keep me from it:)

Epilogue  
Stannis

The change in Sansa after doing their duty became mutually satisfying was endearing, although occasionally maddening.  More than once, she had moved her hand between his legs underneath the table during her attendance at the Small Council meeting in a most suggestive manner, often when his temper was about to flare.  It was not lost on him that it always served its purpose as a distraction.  She introduced a playful side when she showed him a secret passage from her solar that went into the crypts below and out to the hot springs used for bathing.  His guard and Lady Brienne kept each other company outside her solar door on many late evenings guarding absolutely no one while he and his queen did a bit more than bathe one another.  Not one to normally break the rules or do something so risky, Stannis found he enjoyed these times alone with her when no one knew where they were.  Of course, he always took his sword with him when they went on these adventures.   

It was after one of the Small Council meetings when she had teased him unmercifully as she sat next to him that she smiled at him as she left in a way he never thought he’d see from her.   Sansa smiled more and more with each passing day.  There were days that would go by when he realized he did not see the sadness in her eyes.  It wasn't completely gone, yet it was evident less and less.  However, this particular smile was playful and provocative, and most of all, it was meant only for him.  As he did his best to smile back at her, Stannis was aware that his Hand had seen the exchange. 

“Well, Lord Hand.  Have you anything you wish to say to your king?”  Stannis stared him down boldly, expecting him to retreat into looking down at whatever report was before him on the table. 

That was not the case.  Davos stood and rounded the table until he was at his king’s side, although not facing him.  “Well done, Your Grace,” he remarked boldly with a smirk.  “Well done indeed.” 

The scowl he gave him in reply did not faze his Lord Hand at all.  Had that remark come from anyone else in the room, they would have been in the Winterfell dungeon for a fortnight.   But it came from Davos.  They could never vocalize it, but Davos was his brother in every way but blood.  It actually felt good to be teased by him for all of one second.   

A little over a year after they were wed, Sansa bore him a healthy son.  At Sansa's insistence, Shireen was asked to pick out a strong Baratheon name for her brother, and she chose her grandfather's name, Steffon.  Stannis never thought he would wish Winter to last forever  One day, he would have to march south and take on the Lannisters and then the boy who claimed to be Rhaegar's son.  For now, he would enjoy the smiles and warm bed of his wife, the adoration of his daughter, and watching his young son grow for as long as possible.  


End file.
